


Nothing to Lose But My Secrets

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (the equivalent of ye olde cyanide pill), (unsuccessful), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amnesia, Angst, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Axii (The Witcher), Betrayal, Captive Jaskier | Dandelion, Drinking to Cope, Drowning, Enemies to Lovers, Gwent (The Witcher), Homoerotic Sparring, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stabbing, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Suicide Attempt, Warlord Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26627509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Jaskier is the best assassin in the Northern Kingdoms. On the most important mission of his life-- kill the Warlord of the North or die trying --things go terribly wrong, and he's taken prisoner. During his time as a captive in Kaer Morhen, he's forced to confront some uncomfortable truths: witchers aren't what the stories say, his soulmate is most definitely somewhere in the keep, and he may have found himself on the wrong side of this war.--aka a warlord AU, soulmate AU, and enemies-to-lovers fic all in one!
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 1139
Kudos: 1417





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoldenDaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/gifts).
  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> this started out as a gift fic for GoldenDaydreams and grew WILDLY out of control. uhh enjoy I guess lol, happy birthday!
> 
> also, fair warning, I have no idea what the update schedule for this will be. I now have two active wips and am also in college full time so uhhh it's really a roll of the dice when this will be updated again. but! I have the next chapter started already so look out for that!

Jaskier takes a deep breath, holding the frigid air in his lungs for a count of fifteen, then slowly, soundlessly letting it out. He can do this.

The stones of the castle wall are cold even through his trousers, and great gusts of wind bite at his extremities, but he doesn’t let any of it distract him. He has a job to do, perhaps the most important job he’ll ever do.

He gracefully, silently, pulls his bag off his shoulder. He has only the basics—his crossbow, sparse rations, a few lockpicks, and two potion vials. The liquid inside the first vial is more of a thick sludge, dark and repellant. The second, in contrast, is clear and colorless, as if the vial is filled with nothing more potent than water. Jaskier, however, knows that what lies inside is deadlier than anything else on the Continent. If he swallows even one drop, his heart will stop in moments.

He tries not to think about the circumstances that would make drinking that potion necessary.

Still, he takes both potions and his crossbow out of the bag, setting the crossbow in the snow, tucking the clear potion safely into his bandolier belt near his heart, and uncorking the dark potion.

It smells  _ revolting,  _ but he’s too well-trained to gag. His only outward reaction is a slight crease in his forehead. He downs it in one, and it’s exactly as disgusting as he expected, thick and oily in his throat. He needs it for this job, though; witchers are dangerous foes.

There’s not much known about them, although all the reports agree that they’re faster, more cunning, and have sharper senses than humans. Jaskier is effectively poking a hornets’ nest. With the potion, though, his scent will be dulled and any sounds of his movement muffled. Now the only danger comes from being spotted, but he has years of experience at staying in the shadows.

He double checks that his crossbow is in working order; can’t ever let the equipment fail. It pulls back smoothly when he cocks it, and the poison-tipped bolts slot perfectly in place. He only has one,  _ maybe  _ two shots at this; everything must be perfect if he's to take down the Warlord of the North.

With everything prepared, he slips soundlessly along the wall, eyes darting back and forth in constant vigilance. Not a soul stirs in this weather, the dead of winter, and he makes it all the way to the inner walls of the keep without incident. From there, he climbs.

His thick gloves protect him from the worst of the cold, but getting a grip on the slippery stone is harder than ever. He hasn’t almost fallen this many times since he first started out.

He’s still a professional, though—the best in the land, in fact—so he doesn’t fall, and he doesn’t leave any trace, not a boot scuffed here, nor a pebble falling there. Once he’s at the highest point he can possibly reach, he creeps further along the wall, until he reaches a window nearly too narrow to fit through.

Being of such a slim build has its advantages, though, and he’s able to slip through, landing with a silent roll. He freezes, just in case he’s been detected, but hears no running footsteps, no calls of alarm. He sneaks along the hallway in the direction of voices until he finds himself at a balcony overlooking what must be the throne room.

There are witchers scattered around in strategic places—stationed by the doors, the windows, next to the throne. And there, in all his terrible glory, sits the Warlord of the North, the White Wolf himself.

Despite himself, Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He’s as close as anyone has ever been—or at least, anyone who hasn’t died immediately. His survival is far from guaranteed, especially once he takes the shot, but for now, he actually has a chance at completing his mission.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he draws his crossbow, resting his elbows on the balustrade for stability. He lines up his shot, looking down the shaft at white hair and gleaming armor. Inhales, exhales.

And pulls the trigger.

The bolt flies true, heading straight for the witcher’s heart. But then, almost too fast for human eyes, he sees a flash of gleaming steel, a sword knocking the bolt from its course.  _ Shit. _

Jaskier pauses for a split-second, gauging whether he has time to take his second shot. He sees nostrils flare, sees golden cat eyes scan the room, landing almost immediately on where he’s concealed by the shadows. No time, then. And little chance of escape, either.

He has a decision to make, a terrible, awful, end-of-the-line decision, but it’s no decision at all, really. He won’t be caged. He won’t become a liability to his country, he won’t be tortured for information, he won’t throw himself on the White Wolf’s mercy.

He tosses his crossbow aside, hands just barely shaking despite his training. He pulls the clear potion from his belt, uncorking it in one swift movement, and swallows just as the first witcher thunders onto the balcony.

Already he can feel the poison burning in his stomach like acid, can feel a chill racing along his veins. The witcher looks at him with horror, and he smirks. Jaskier the Assassin is  _ never  _ caught unprepared, and it’s satisfying to know that even in his last moments, he’s managed to one-up his enemy yet again.

More witchers pour onto the balcony, but Jaskier doesn’t see them, his eyes slipping closed as his heartbeat slows. The world dims around him, and very faintly he hears  _ Geralt safe?... rat drank something… magic, can’t you… dangerous… do it. _

He thinks it’s over, and then his heart beats once, twice, gaining speed, until it’s near-galloping in his chest. There’s an awful  _ tug  _ in his stomach, as if the poison is trying to force its way out. His eyes fly open just as his mouth does, and a cloud of  _ something  _ comes pouring out of it, along with the entire contents of his stomach. It burns twice as bad coming back up, and he retches, gags, that awful pull still tugging at his insides, as if it wants to turn him inside out.

Just as the feeling starts to lessen, he feels the world going dark again. In the last moments before unconsciousness, he smells lilac and gooseberries, unexpected in such a cold, stark place. He looks over and sees a dark-haired woman with her hands held out, pulling the cloud of poison out of him and into herself.

Fuck. He’s failed.

\--

Jaskier bolts awake as if he was never unconscious in the first place, hands scrabbling beneath him, pushing himself upright and panting.

It takes a minute for his heartrate to calm—he can’t forget the awful feeling of it slowing and then stilling in his chest. Once he catches his breath, he looks around at the dungeon he’s found himself in.

For a dungeon in a keep full of monsters, it’s surprisingly nice. It’s dry, and there are no rats (yet), and he even has a pallet with a blanket on it, and a privy in the opposite corner.

The flagstones are strangely warm beneath his bare feet when he stands, as if they’ve been baking in the summer sun for hours. When he closes his eyes and strains his ears, he can very faintly hear the sound of metal striking metal, hear muffled shouts. There must be a room underneath the dungeons—maybe a training room?

Though his cell is warm enough, he still shivers, shirtless. In fact, they’ve taken his shirts well as his boots and all of his gear, but thankfully they’ve left him with his trousers and what little dignity they give. No shirt means no lockpicks sewn into the hem, though, and he’s more than a little sour about it. He shivers again, but refuses to unfold the blanket out of principle, and instead starts walking the length of his cell.

Five paces in one direction, four in the other; it’s not exactly roomy, but it’s still more than he expected. There’s no window, but the barred wall to the hallway lets in enough light to see by. The door is sturdy, thick wood, something he imagines even witchers would have trouble breaking down. All in all, his cell is quite secure, though more comfortable than most would think.

More worryingly: there are no stains, anywhere, neither blood nor other bodily fluids. Which either means that the witchers have an entire separate room dedicated to torture, or that no one has survived long enough to  _ be  _ tortured. Jaskier knows which he would prefer, but judging by the way that sorceress so rudely saved his life, he doesn’t have high hopes.

He rubs at the soulmark just above his inner wrist, an old motion that he’s never been able to shake. The idea that his soulmate, wherever they are, might feel him through it is a comfort he regularly falls back on. He hasn’t felt anything back yet—soulmates have to be in close proximity for that—but someday he will, he tells himself.

Well, someday turns out to be  _ today.  _ As if Jaskier needed any more life-shattering events. At first he thinks he’s imagined it, just a slight touch of fingertips against his wrist, the sensation of  _ worry-concern-help? _ that brushes against his mind. It’s easy to mistake it for his own anxiety, but as the touches grow stronger, those foreign feelings filling him, it’s undeniable that his soulmate is on the other end of their connection, worried for Jaskier and wanting to know the source of his anxiety.

And now his anxiety has ratcheted up about ten  _ thousand  _ fucking notches, because if he can finally feel his soulmate on the other end of his soulmark, that means that his soulmate has to be nearby, and the only people in the keep are his  _ sworn enemies  _ and  _ captors,  _ oh and also did he mention that his soulmate must be a fucking  _ witcher?  _ An immortal, superpowered monster, whose leader he just tried to kill.

He is  _ so fucked. _

He frantically paces around his cell, wishing he had some sort of outlet for the panic now coursing through his veins. He makes it around the cell fifteen more times before his ears pick up the sound of footsteps approaching. One set, heavy, booted, even paced.

A witcher comes into view—golden eyes, two swords over his back, armored, and with a  _ horrifically  _ scarred face. It’s only Jaskier’s excellent poker face that prevents him from instinctively flinching.

“You’re awake, then. Now, are you going to follow me quietly, or do I need to make you?” he asks, no-nonsense.

Jaskier gulps. He wants to refuse out of principle, but he also knows that he’s more likely to gain an advantage if he can retain a little control. He nods, and the witcher nods back, stepping forward to fiddle with the lock on the door.

Jaskier very briefly entertains the idea of going on the offensive, knocking out the witcher and locking him in the dungeons so that he can escape. Just as quickly as the idea came to him, he dismisses it—the odds that he could get the drop on the witcher aren’t high, and he doesn’t have enough information to make a run for it yet.

Jaskier also considers provoking him into using one of those swords, although again, it seems like they want him alive for now, so that plan maybe doesn’t have the highest chance of success.

The witcher pushes open the door and Jaskier steps out, hands clenched tightly into fists. The witcher seems amused, and turns away, leading him down the hallway and up a flight of stairs.

A  _ never-ending  _ flight of stairs, Jaskier assumes, because they just keep going and going in circles, climbing out of the bowels of the keep. He’s plenty in shape, takes care to remain fit so that he can do his job to the best of his ability, but this is just inhuman. He’s struggling not to wheeze by the time they finally reach the top, and he would swear that the witcher’s smirk has only grown. Bastard. Maybe this is what they do to torture prisoners, just run them up and down stairs until they’re begging to spill their secrets.

He catches his breath as the witcher leads him down yet another hallway to an ornately carved door. The witcher knocks, and it swings open on its own moments later to reveal a luxurious set of rooms. And seated on a couch in the middle of the room, looking absolutely queenly, is the dark-haired sorceress.

Jaskier's mouth goes dry. With magic at her disposal, who knows the variety of inventive ways she could learn his secrets? He has training against mind-reading, but he’s always been sort of rubbish at it. If well-constructed defenses are like a brick wall, Jaskier’s are a wooden fence only held together with spit and prayer.

The sorceress looks up, violet eyes flashing, and the witcher nudges him forward until he’s in front of the couch opposite her, then gives him a meaningful look. He sits. The witcher towers behind him, arms crossed, and Jaskier feels sweat beading on his neck at being caught between these two immensely powerful people.

“So here’s our little assassin,” the sorceress muses, words dripping with malice and amusement in equal parts. “Tell me, did you actually think you could sneak unnoticed into a castle full of witchers, or are you just stupid?”

Well that’s insulting. Jaskier opens his mouth to answer her, but is suddenly distracted by a prodding at his mental defenses. He gathers all his strength and throws up the strongest wall he can, and is gratified to see a small crease appear in her forehead. She backs off, which he didn’t expect.

“Ah, so you’ve met mages before, then. Our little assassin grows more interesting by the minute,” she says to the witcher.

“I don’t care how many mages he’s met, Yennefer,” the witcher growls. “I care whether you can tell us who he is, where he came from, and if there’s another attack coming.”

“So unimaginative,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Alright then. I suppose you won’t tell me if I ask nicely?” Jaskier sits mulishly silent. They won’t get anything from him if he can help it. “So be it.”

She resumes her mental assault, doubled in strength this time. Jaskier feels his defenses crack and grits his teeth, redoubling his efforts at keeping her out. They battle for what feels like an eternity before he feels her withdraw—a stalemate. She hasn’t managed to penetrate his mind, but both of them are entirely spent. Were it not for the adrenaline keeping his heart racing, Jaskier would be on the verge of falling asleep.

“Anything?” the witcher behind him rumbles. Yennefer purses her lips.

“His name is Jaskier. That’s all I could get,” she answers, sounding bitter about it. “Bring him back tomorrow,” she instructs, rising to her feet with a gracious sweep of her skirts. “We may need to use Axii.”

Whatever  _ Axii  _ is, it doesn’t sound good. And even though he fought his absolute hardest, he still let his name slip. Tomorrow can only promise worse. As the scarred witcher leads him out of her rooms, Jaskier decides that now is the time to act.

He leaps at the witcher, aiming low and knocking him off balance. “Hey!” the witcher shouts. They go down hard in a tangle of limbs, and Jaskier scrambles to get away. He makes it a few feet before a hand snags his ankle and he trips, knocking his chin on the floor and narrowly avoiding biting through his tongue.

He rolls and kicks out. The witcher grunts but doesn’t release his grip. A second hand comes up to pin his other leg, which gives Jaskier the opportunity to throw out an elbow to the face. The witcher barely dodges.

The window for his escape is rapidly decreasing. With every passing moment, more witchers are surely running towards them to join the fight. Jaskier finally manages to yank his legs out of the witcher’s tight grasp, scrabbling to climb up into the nearby windowsill.

This window isn’t like the one he entered the keep through; it’s much larger and has an easily released latch. He flings the window open, cold air flooding the hallway, and looks down.

It’s not an escape route, that’s for certain. The ground lies some hundred feet below him, and no amount of snowdrifts is enough to cushion that fall. If he takes this jump, it’ll be the last thing he ever does.

But anything is better than staying here in captivity. He tenses his muscles, leaning forward, and then hears the witcher behind him say, “ _ Axii.” _

It’s like his mind has suddenly been plunged into a placid lake, where everything is muffled and there’s not a care in the world. He can barely think at all, actually, past the vacant desire not to do much of anything.

_ Climb down from the window. _

He doesn’t want to stay standing on the windowsill, though. He steps back into the hallway, shivering a little in the cold draft pouring into the keep.

_ Eyes closed. Follow me. _

He closes his eyes without a thought, and likes how it means he doesn’t have to think about anything he sees anymore. It’s better this way, where all he has to do is follow instructions. A hand closes around his wrist and he lets it pull him forward, going pliant.

He doesn’t know how long they walk for, but when he slowly comes back to himself and opens his eyes, he’s back in the dungeons, the scarred witcher long gone.

So that must have been Axii. Jaskier shudders. The feeling of his mind being taken from him, of being filled with nothing but the desire to please, is something he has no wish to repeat. It was, quite frankly, terrifying—he prides himself on being in control, constantly, and being stripped of free will by his enemy like that was horrible. He’s only lucky that the scarred witcher made him do nothing more serious than walk himself back to his cell.

He dreads what tomorrow will bring, when Yennefer’s magic and the witcher’s Axii team up against him. He curls up on his pallet and fails to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would normally have waited until tonight to post, but since there's going to be maintenance on the archive you all get this early. enjoy!

It’s several hours later that the scarred witcher visits him in the dungeons again, but this time, he’s brought backup. The second witcher looks far meaner than the scarred one, if that’s even possible. But the glare he’s wearing would be enough to make an entire army turn tail and run. Jaskier gets the feeling that if he were to cross this witcher, he might not make it out alive. Well, not that he normally would anyway, not in close combat with a witcher, but this one looks _especially_ dangerous and angry.

“Wakey wakey, sunshine!” he yells, knocking loudly on the bars. Jaskier wasn’t asleep to begin with, but he still starts, rising to face the witchers. “C’mon, I ain’t got all day.” He turns to the scarred witcher. “Remind me why we’re going to all this trouble again?”

“You know why, Lambert, don’t be an asshole about it. We have to know what he knows.”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “It’s not hard, Eskel. Dangle him out a window or something. That always gets them screaming.”

The scarred witcher—Eskel—ignores him, unlocking the door and gesturing for Jaskier to step out. He does, trying to tamp down his fear. Judging by the frown that appears on Eskel’s face, he doesn’t do a very good job of it.

“What are you waiting for?” Lambert asks. “Hit him with Axii and let’s go.”

Jaskier’s heart is pounding. He _can’t_ handle Axii again, can’t give up control like that. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to matter to the witchers. Eskel waves his hand in a pattern in front of him, and Jaskier’s mind goes pleasantly blank. All he wants is to help Eskel.

 _Go quietly to Yennefer’s rooms._ Well, if Eskel wants him to go to Yennefer, then he wants to go to Yennefer. There’s something in his chest that hurts when he thinks about her, but the soothing pulse of Axii wipes the pain away. Why would he be scared of Yennefer? He likes Yennefer, wants to go see her.

He’s vaguely aware of two people behind him as he makes his way to Yennefer’s rooms; one is Eskel, who he likes _so much,_ and the other, eh, he doesn’t really care. He’s more distracted by the thoughts of _Yennefer, go to Yennefer’s rooms,_ and the oh-so-quiet, warring sensation of uneasiness growing inside of him. Every time Axii washes it away, it comes back stronger than before.

When he sees the ornate door, something inside of him just breaks. He throws off Axii’s suffocating grip, adrenaline flooding his system, replacing the placid calm that was caging him in quiet submission. He turns heel and _runs,_ nimbly dodging the grasping hands that reach for him. He hears the door open behind him, hears Yennefer yell “ _Voe'rle!”_ and then suddenly his muscles are locked in place. He crashes to the ground, mindless escape halted.

But though his body is captive, his mind is his own, which is all Jaskier ever wanted. Eskel, Lambert, and Yennefer run the length of the hallway towards him, and strong hands haul up his unresponsive body. _Fuck you,_ he thinks as viciously as he can, dropping his mental defenses for a split second to ensure that the mindreading witch gets the message.

“What the fuck did you _do_ to him, Eskel?” she bites out as the witchers lay him on a couch. “I could feel his fear from across the keep.”

“He _really_ doesn’t like Axii,” Lambert drawls.

 _No shit,_ Jaskier thinks, as loudly as he can. _Would anyone like having their mind invaded?_

“Clearly,” Yennefer replies dryly. “I thought you were supposed to be the best at Signs, Eskel. How the fuck did he break through that?”

“He just—he just _bolted,_ somehow. I don’t know. I’ve never seen a human shake it off like that.” He sounds deeply disturbed at the very thought.

“Unfortunate,” Yennefer mutters. “My guess is I’ll have similar trouble trying to get into his mind. And I suppose you can’t use Axii again?”

Eskel shakes his head. “Gonna take me a while to recharge after that.”

“Hm.” She taps a finger against her lips and turns to Lambert, but he’s got his arms crossed and is already looking sour.

“Hate to admit it, but if Eskel couldn’t hold him, I definitely can’t. We could try getting Geralt in here, but—”

“Not happening,” Eskel finishes.

Jaskier really wishes they would stop talking about him like he isn’t here, or better yet, let him not be there at all. He grits his teeth and strains against his invisible bonds, but there’s not an ounce of give to them.

Yennefer must notice his struggles, because her violet eyes alight on him with appraisal. “You’re a fighter, that much is obvious,” she says. Jaskier scowls and bares his teeth in response. “We could battle until the day we die and never get anywhere. An eternal stalemate.” She waves her hand and Jaskier feels the muscles in the top half of his body release.

He flexes his fingers and stretches, warily sitting up, never once looking away from her. She quirks an eyebrow, waiting for a response, but he stays quiet, focusing on shoring up his mental defenses after being thoroughly taken down with Axii.

When he doesn’t answer, she continues. “Or we could come to a compromise. You may be a fighter, but you clearly have some wits about you, if you were nearly successful in invading Kaer Morhen. A compromise is the smart decision to make.”

“Yeah? And what, I just give up all of my secrets and you let me swan off unharmed? I don’t think so,” he scoffs.

“No. Of course not. We could never let you go, not with you knowing what you do,” she says offhandedly, examining her nails.

That throws Jaskier for a loop. With all of her charm and competence, Jaskier somehow never expected such blatant honesty. “What, then? What could you give me, besides the honor of a quick death?”

“Well, we could get you out of those dungeons, for one.”

“Sorry, somehow betraying everything I believe in just for a nicer room doesn’t sit quite right with me.”

“And I wouldn’t expect it to. How about this—you stop trying to off yourself at every available moment, to start. In return, you have my word, and the word of the White Wolf, that no harm will come to you in Kaer Morhen.”

“And I’m just supposed to believe that?” he snorts. “Hard to trust the word of murderers and liars.”

“Like you?” she returns coolly. He has no answer to that. He’s no wordsmith. “Thought so,” she continues. “Do you want the deal, or would you rather rot in the dungeons for eternity?”

He considers it. She certainly has a point—though he can’t trust them, it seems he has no choice but to accept if he wants to break the stalemate. And at least he has the barest chance of a chance of escaping if he’s not buried deep in the dungeons. And with no torture on the table, that only leaves one thing to take care of.

“I accept,” he answers, “on the condition that no one invades my mind again.”

Yennefer frowns a little, but nods, holding out a slender hand. He takes it with trepidation and they shake, Jaskier feeling a little like he’s signing his doom as he does.

“Right,” Eskel says afterwards. “I’ll show him to the western tower.”

Yennefer waves her hand again, and the rest of Jaskier’s muscles unlock. He rubs the feeling back into his legs before standing and following Eskel, leaving Yennefer and her lilac and gooseberries behind.

Eskel leads him to an entirely new wing of the keep, keeping up a polite-yet-meaningless commentary the entire time. Jaskier’s status seems to have suddenly shifted from ‘high-security prisoner’ to something more like ‘unwitting guest’. Jaskier doesn’t trust it _at all,_ and even though he’s bursting to know more about the keep, he keeps his mouth shut.

The room Eskel stops at is bigger than his cell by a fair bit. It’s large enough to comfortably fit a bed, some bookshelves lined with thick tomes, a fireplace, and a tub behind a folding screen. Plush rugs line the stone floor, trapping valuable heat inside, and there are thick curtains on the window. Unfortunately it’s too small to fit through, even if he hadn’t promised not to go jumping out any more windows.

All in all, it’s surprisingly cozy, a definite step up from the sparseness of the dungeons.

“I’ll bring you something to eat in a bit. Until then, stay here, and don’t try anything,” Eskel warns, leveling him with a serious look. “There’ll be a guard outside your door. If you need anything while I’m gone, just yell.”

With that, Eskel leaves, shutting the door behind him and sliding the heavy lock into place. Jaskier is left alone to explore his new quarters.

The bed catches his eye first, against the middle of the far wall on a slightly raised platform. He runs a hand along the bedspread, finding it unbelievably silky, like the finest-quality fabrics usually only found in kings’ quarters. He’s tempted to lie down and take a nap on the plush bed, but he’s too keyed-up to sleep, really, and also has several days’ worth of grime on his skin. It would be a shame to ruin such a fine bed.

He regretfully leaves a nap for later and turns to the wardrobe against the right-hand wall. Finally, he can put a shirt on and stop feeling so exposed all the time. He picks out a dark and form-fitting shirt, almost the same style he would normally wear on a job. It provides comfort that he’s been sorely lacking lately.

Feeling a little more like himself, he walks around the room, taking mental notes as he does. Not very defensible in the event of an attack—there’s nowhere to easily hide, besides behind the paper-thin screen in the corner. As he saw before, the window is too small to escape through, and the fireplace has a grate in the chimney. There’s nothing that could be used as a weapon in a pinch—not even the books that line the bookshelves, light as they are.

He crosses the room to open the window and pokes his head out. The world outside is a blur of blinding white, cold air stinging his nose. It’s bracing and refreshing all at once, a reminder that he’s insulated from the outside world while stuck in Kaer Morhen.

He shivers, and once again considers the potential foolishness of mounting a secret mission in the dead of winter. It made him harder to track on his way to the keep, yes, but it also makes escape, or any potential rescue mission, that much harder.

His head is still stuck outside the window when Eskel comes back. Jaskier hears the door open yanks it inside, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” he says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just looking.”

“Okay,” Eskel says mildly, setting both plates he’s carrying on the low table in front of the fire. Jaskier’s stomach growls at the rich smell that rises from the food—roasted chicken, potatoes, and carrots.

Eskel take a seat on the floor further away from the fireplace, leaving himself as a physical barrier in between Jaskier and the door, but also leaving the warmer spot for him. Jaskier sits down, legs crossed, and picks up a chicken leg, barely restraining himself from tearing into like an animal. Fuck, but he’s starved—it’s been at least a day since he last ate, and before that, it was a week of dried rations slowly running out.

“It’s not poisoned,” Eskel says when Jaskier doesn’t immediately eat. “C’mon, we want you alive, remember?” But it’s more of an inside joke than a threat, the way Eskel says it. Jaskier knows he’s playing right into their hands, knows that Eskel is perhaps the most dangerous enemy he’s ever faced, and yet the small sense of companionship warms him a little.

Jaskier bites viciously into the drumstick, disgusted by himself. He can’t let them get to him like this. Eskel’s company and almost-kind words are nothing but an empty ploy to win his trust before stabbing him in the back. Witchers may be smart, but Jaskier is smarter.

They eat in silence for a time, before Eskel takes a long drink and clears his throat. Jaskier turns suspicious eyes on him. “I wanted to apologize,” he starts, and that is _so_ not what Jaskier expected. “I know Axii can be… unpleasant. I’m sorry for taking control of you like that. It was necessary at the time, but that doesn’t erase the fact that it’s unethical to use a man like that. So I’m sorry.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, taking a long drink of water to buy himself time. Eskel sounds so _genuine,_ is the thing; Jaskier finds himself truly believing that he’s sorry for violating his mind like that.

“Apology accepted,” he finally decides on, setting his cup down with a _clink._ “But I have to ask—why now? Why are you being so—so _nice?”_ he asks, and fuck, it sounds more pathetically confused than anything else.

Eskel shrugs. “You’re a prisoner, but that doesn’t mean we have to treat you like yesterday’s trash,” he says, somewhat evasively.

“But I’m your enemy. I tried to _kill_ your king,” he spits out. Testing boundaries. How far until Eskel gives up this charade of hospitality?

Eskel stares at him with his depthless golden eyes. “In my experience, anyone that ready to kill themselves for a cause? Is usually either right, or in a pretty bad place. And I know you’re not right.”

Why is everyone in this keep so disarmingly fucking honest? Were Jaskier not well-trained at dissembling, he would be thrown for a loop every five seconds, the way these people talk.

“I am right,” he throws back. “Are you blind to the horrors committed in the White Wolf’s name? The murders, the lands razed to the ground, the governments toppled? Your ‘freedom’ costs lives.”

“It’s regretful, but it’s a necessary price. And it’s exaggerated. Redania feeds you all nothing but propaganda.”

“Your loyalty is charming, but I won’t believe your sweet lies,” Jaskier says coldly. “And I think I’d quite like to be alone now.”

He gets up from the table and stalks over to the window, staring steadfastly out at the winterscape until he hears heavy footsteps and the click of the locked door behind him.

With Eskel gone, Jaskier can get a handle on the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He hasn’t shown his hand that much since his early training days. It’s a rookie move, and anger simmers in his gut as he paces back and forth around the room.

Suddenly the feeling on his skin, like his clothes are too tight, suffocating around him, is too much to bear. He rips them off and flings them across the room, not caring where they land. They smell to high heaven anyways.

His skin still crawls with emotion, and it’s like he can feel the layers of dirt on himself. Perhaps a bath will help? He pulls aside the screen, and just as he thinks he’ll have to ask someone to bring up water—which he _emphatically_ doesn’t want to do—he spots little silver knobs set into the wall above the tub.

He gives one an experimental twist and is shocked to see water come sputtering out into the tub. Where is it coming from? It’s even steaming hot—it must be some sort of sorcery, but what a tremendous amount of magic it must take to provide hot water at the turn of a knob.

But Jaskier has always been practical, and he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He climbs in the tub, and as he feels the warm water lapping at his skin, washing away his stress along with the dirt, he relaxes for the first time since laying eyes on Kaer Morhen.

Of course, that’s when his soulmark starts tingling with sensation again. This time, it brings with it the sensation of curiosity, tinged with quite a lot of background stress. Well, of course his soulmate is stressed; _he’s_ here, after all, and surely has thrown the entire keep into disarray.

Taking a deep breath, he focuses on sending only one thing through their connection— _hatred._ He doesn’t care _who_ his soulmate is; they’re a witcher, or closely associated with them, anyway, and that’s enough for him to know that he wants no part of it. There will be no sweeping romance, no breathtaking confessions of love, no heart-stopping moment when their eyes first meet if Jaskier can help it. He wants nothing to do with his soulmate, all that drivel about Destiny be damned.

He almost immediately receives hurt back, hurt and confusion, and a little bit of something he would call indignation. Good. Let it fester and break. He's seen it before—connections that go unfulfilled for one reason or another, the death of a soulmate before their time, a bond that sours over time as soulmates fall out of love.

Jaskier and his soulmate will never have that bond in the first place if he has anything to say about it. He feels his soulmate retreat, still radiating distress and confusion, and ignores how it makes his heart clench in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no Geralt yet, but soon! I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright early chapter this time (technically? is it early if I don't really have a posting schedule lol) because I have a question for you all! see the end note for more :)

Jaskier is woken a few days later by a rap at the door, as he has been every morning since he was moved out of the dungeons. He’s awake in an instant, honed instincts on high alert. Several days of inactivity have left him antsier than ever, and though he’s no stranger to boredom after so many long hours spent uncomfortably perched waiting for his target, this imprisonment has truly tested his limits.

He yanks some clothes on and opens the door for Eskel, who’s standing there with two plates of breakfast like usual, but also a deck of cards, which is new.

“Morning,” Eskel greets amicably. After his outburst a few days ago, Jaskier had thought that he’d surely driven Eskel away, but the witcher kept showing up, as even-tempered as ever, and they’ve reached a strange sort of almost-friendship. Or maybe Jaskier is just starved for company amidst the mind-numbing hours he spends locked in his room.

“What’s that?” Jaskier asks as he takes his plate from Eskel, nodding at the deck of cards. They’re unlike any deck he’s seen before, intricate, numbered portraits painted on one side.

“Gwent. Ever played?”

Jaskier shakes his head no, mouth already full of potato and onion hash. He does have one thing to say about the hospitality at Kaer Morhen: the food is _fucking incredible._ He’s never eaten so well in his life.

“Thought we could play a few rounds today. You in?”

“Well, my schedule is already so full today, but I suppose I could fit you in,” Jaskier snarks. Eskel cracks a smile. After they eat, Eskel teaches him the basics, but leaves him to figure out his own strategy.

Jaskier picks it up quickly; it’s not so different from figuring out courtly relationships, or battlefield tactics. It’s all about the numbers, and the moves and countermoves, and the sacrifices. Once Jaskier is reliably winning about half the time, Eskel deems him good enough, and proposes a rule change.

“That’s most of Gwent, but we’re missing the most important aspect: the betting.”

“Oh? And what do I have to barter away? The clothes on my back?” Jaskier asks.

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for strip Gwent,” Eskel says drily. “No, I have something even better. Information.”

That piques Jaskier’s interest, although he’s of course wary that this is yet another interrogation technique. “Mmm. What sort of information?”

“Simple. Winner gets to ask one question of their choice.”

“And I suppose you won’t simply be asking questions about my sparkling personality.”

Eskel shrugs. “I’ll sweeten the deal. For every round I win, I ask one question, but for every round you win, you ask three.”

That’s a damn good deal. Better than Jaskier could have hoped for. And he’s been positively starved for information since being here. “Fine,” he agrees.

Eskel wins the first hand, and starts off easy, suspiciously so. “Where are you from?”

“Redania. But you could have known that from my accent,” Jaskier teases. “I’m told it’s quite noticeable.”

Eskel frowns. “I don’t think so. It’s a very good Redanian accent, mind, but it’s fake. Now, where are you really from?”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to frown. Eskel is good, if he can pick up on Jaskier’s accent, which on several occasions has been good enough to fool Redanian nobles themselves. “Alright, I’m not really from Redania, but I have lived there for most of my life. I’m from Lettenhove,” he admits. He’s already regretting his decision to bet information.

To his chagrin, Eskel wins the next two rounds. Jaskier is forced to tell him that the potion he drank upon discovery was indeed poison, to avoid being captured and tortured for information. Eskel’s face grows stony upon hearing so, but gets even worse when Jaskier tells him about the other potion he drank, the one to mask his scent and movement.

“So that’s how you got so far,” Eskel says, grimacing. “If it hadn’t worn off when it did…”

“What do you mean it wore off? It should have been enough to last at least twelve hours,” Jaskier argues. Stregobor may be a complete ass, but he does know his potions.

Eskel just shakes his head, and Jaskier resolves to ask about it when he next wins. Luckily, he does win the next round, and immediately asks, “How do you know it wore off?”

“To witcher senses, it was like a beacon lighting up. Suddenly there was an intruder in the castle, when before we couldn’t sense anything. So either the dose was wrong, or you got a faulty potion,” Eskel answers.

“That’s impossible,” Jaskier snaps, but only receives a flat, unimpressed look. “Fine. Does anyone else know I’m here?” he bites out, and in return learns that the witchers have sent word to the Redanian Secret Service about their prisoner, offering up Jaskier’s freedom in exchange for a non-aggression pact with King Radovid.

“But I can’t leave. Yennefer said I know too much,” Jaskier reminds Eskel, and it hurts him to remember too. He hasn’t really considered what it would mean to spend the rest of his life here.

“Hmm. Win another round and I can answer that,” Eskel says, and so Jaskier does.

“Well? Why are you letting me leave?” Jaskier demands.

“Yen was right—we can’t let you leave as long as you know about Kaer Morhen. But we could erase your memory of here, and let you go with no problem. If, that is, Redania accepts. We still haven’t heard back.”

So they’d go into his mind and fuck around some more. “No. No way,” Jaskier says, shaking his head vehemently.

“Well, it’s that or kill you,” Eskel says bluntly.

Jaskier tries to keep his breathing steady in the face of the fear rising up inside of him. “Well, thanks so much for the entertainment, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says tersely. He refuses to have another mindless panicking episode in front of Eskel again.

Eskel packs up without another word, and Jaskier is thankful for his discretion. Alone once again, he shakes apart in the solitude of a comfortable room, high up in a tower, thousands of miles away from friendly territory.

Tears of fear, of stress, and even of anger start to fall after so many days of keeping his feelings bottled up. He sobs for a while, just getting it out, before his rational mind takes over again and the tears slow.

There are so many questions whirling around in his mind. Will Redania accept the deal? Will the witchers keep their word and let him go? And if they do, will he forget everything about the past couple of days? The past couple of weeks? Everything he knows about witchers, about Kaer Morhen, about the war?

Jaskier has spent months—no, _years—_ researching this mission. He knows everything there is to know about witchers and their abilities. If they take that away, who will he be? He prides himself on being the absolute best at his job; he can’t let them take that away from him. He’d sooner die.

And for that matter—how was he caught in the first place? Eskel said his presence lit up like a beacon. But Stregobor is the most talented mage in the Northern Kingdoms—his potions are made to last. There’s no way Jaskier should have been detectable at all, not so soon after drinking his potion.

 _Unless it was designed that way,_ whispers a little insidious voice inside his head, the ever-untrusting instinct inherent to anyone in the spy business. _That’s ridiculous,_ he argues back, _when has Stregobor ever let me down?_ Stregobor has been the top mage at the RSS for decades. He’s as dependable as they come, always the one Jaskier turns to when he needs backup. Stregobor is the one who taught him how to protect his mind from intruders. Stregobor enchanted his first crossbow. Jaskier would almost call him a father figure, were he not allergic to the concept of family.

So to think that Stregobor could have purposefully sabotaged his mission? It cuts deep.

Jaskier has a good long cry over that, too, until eventually he has nothing left in him, just a hollowed-out shell of a person.

After a time, when he’s just lying on his bed staring at the wall, he’s roused by the sound of shuffling footsteps outside his door. At first he thinks it must be whatever witcher was assigned guard duty at his door, but they sound too small, light on their feet. Is that—is there a _child_ outside?

He didn’t think there were any children at all in the keep. Everyone he’s seen has been witchers or the occasional mage like Yennefer. Out his window he sometimes sees the occasional human come up to the menacing gates of the keep, begging for some favor or another from the warlord, but rarely are they admitted inside. And _never_ are there any children.

 _Another spy?_ Unlikely, but not impossible. The RSS has been known to use child assets at times. And, judging by the sounds of rattling in the lock on the door, this child knows how to pick a lock.

The only question now is friend or foe. Clearly this person is trying to be sneaky—but why?

Jaskier positions himself next to the door, ready to jump on whoever comes through. He doesn’t have to wait long; with a soft _snick_ the lock disengages, and the door swings open. Jaskier pounces.

He’s _not_ expecting the little girl who comes through to even see him coming, never mind counter his move with a swift dodge and a foot stuck out to trip him. He recovers quickly, but it’s still too late. She grabs his arm and twists, forcing him to his knees, and then drives all of her weight into the middle of his back until his stomach hits the floor. He bucks, trying to throw her off, but _holy shit_ is she a hundred pounds of pure muscle?

He struggles for a few more seconds and then gives up, panting, winded from the brief fight after so long spent stagnating in this room.

“What do you want?” he bites out, trying to twist his neck to get a proper look at her. All he can see is a flash of ashen-blonde hair.

“What’s your problem?” she counters, sounding offended. “I just wanted to talk, but if you’re just going to attack anyone who comes in I won’t bother!”

“How was I supposed to know? You could have been trying to kill me!” he yells back, and it abruptly hits him how absurd this entire situation is. Oh how far he’s fallen, effortlessly taken down by a child in his own territory (or what passes for it here).

She rolls off of him, and he slowly sits up, wary of being tackled again. They eye each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up like animals pacing around a cage.

She’s young, perhaps about twelve, with long ashen hair and brilliant green eyes. She carries herself like a fighter—someone who knows how to use their body as a weapon, and use it well, as she so clearly just demonstrated.

He doesn’t know what she sees in return—a blotchy-faced, scraggly, unkempt mess of a man, probably. Not a world-class master assassin, that’s for sure. But her face suddenly breaks into a smile, and she holds out a hand for him to shake. “I’m Ciri. You’re a good fighter.”

He cautiously shakes her hand, unsurprised by the strength of her grip. “So are you,” he replies. “Jaskier; nice to meet you. Are you even supposed to be in here?” he asks, squinting.

Her expression shifts to one of guilt. “No, please don’t tell! I just wanted to see what all the fuss was. But you’re just a man.”

“I’m not _just_ anything,” he starts to say, but then reconsiders telling her his true identity. Clearly she doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want the only new conversational partner he’s had to leave so soon after arriving. “So I am,” he says instead. “Are you _just_ a girl, or is there more than meets the eye under all that muscle?”

“Well, Yen says I’m chaos incarnate.”

Jaskier laughs. “I could use a bit of chaos to liven things up around here.”

Ciri wrinkles her nose. “It must be so boring in here all day. Lucky I showed up.”

“Definitely so,” he agrees. “For that matter, why did you? I don’t know many children who could pick a lock so easily, nor one who could fight so well. What are you doing in an awful place like this?” His heart beats with hope rising in his chest; is it possible she might let him out?

“It’s not awful!” she argues. “I mean, all the towers are a bit cold, sure, but Kaer Morhen is wonderful!”

Ah, fuck. She’s definitely on the side of the witchers then. Perhaps even a witcher in training, herself, from the way she fought. “I didn’t mean any insult,” he soothes, hoping to maybe retain her sympathy. “It must be the frustration getting to me.”

“It’s okay. A lot of people don’t like it here. Especially Redanians,” she adds, and now she looks nervous. “You’re not Redanian, are you? We’re at war with them. Geralt says they’re our most powerful foe.” _Damn right,_ Jaskier thinks with a bit of pride.

But who is this Geralt she keeps mentioning? Now that he thinks about it, he can recall Yennefer also talking about him.

“No, I’m not Redanian,” he says, and technically it isn’t even a lie. “Although it’s hard to appreciate the beauty of this wonderful keep when I’m stuck in here all day,” he mourns. “Shame. I’m sure it’d grow on me, were I to get out and about more.” This isn’t his most subtle attempt at manipulation ever, but fuck it, he’s desperate, okay?

Despite his efforts, Ciri’s face remains twisted, unsure. “I don’t know,” she hedges. “Why don’t you ask Geralt? He usually lets me do things that everyone else says not to, especially if I look really sad about it.”

 _Well, this Geralt sounds like a pushover,_ Jaskier privately thinks. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t think that would really work for me. I don’t have the same big green puppy dog eyes, for one.” She laughs. “But if this Geralt ever stops by, I’ll be sure to take your advice. Maybe you could put in a good word for me?”

“I don’t know… I’m not really supposed to be in here at all.”

“No, you’re not,” a deep voice growls from behind them, and both Ciri and Jaskier gasp and whirl around. A witcher stands towering in the doorway, thunderous fury on his face. He has white hair and golden eyes—it’s the warlord himself. The White Wolf.

Ciri goes pale. Jaskier does too—if Lambert had seemed scary when he first saw him, well, that’s _nothing_ compared to what this witcher does to him. Jaskier finds himself unconsciously scuttling backwards to stand against the wall under the weight of that furious gaze.

Ciri recovers from her fear first, scrambling to her feet and rushing to throw her arms around the warlord’s legs. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to see him!”

“I _told_ you not to come in here, Ciri! He’s dangerous—did he hurt you at all?” And with that, the witcher’s tone changes abruptly to concern as he examines her for injury.

“No, I’m fine. I could beat him in a fight, anyway,” she replies bold-facedly.

“You don’t know that,” he growls, and wow, how does his voice even get so low? It’s like if a rockslide could speak. “Now get out of here. Wait for me in your room,” he orders.

She makes a wise decision and obeys, head hanging low, and Jaskier is left alone with a man with the eyes of a predator and a look of bloodthirstiness to match.

Jaskier gulps. His heart is hammering, though he knows he should have no reason to be afraid—per his and Yennefer’s agreement, no harm can come to him under this roof. But the warlord’s expression is making him think twice.

“Look, I had nothing to do with this,” Jaskier stammers. “She just showed up and—”

“Shut up,” he snarls. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t say anything, I promise, oh gods—” He cringes against the wall.

“Did you tell her who you are? What you did?”

“No, nothing, I won’t—I won’t say anything. I’ll forget I even saw her.”

“Yes. You will,” the warlord says, waving his hand in a familiar pattern, and Jaskier feels the fog of Axii take over.

_You’ll forget you saw Ciri here. You’ll tell no one of a girl living in Kaer Morhen._

Girl in Kaer Morhen? What girl? There’s only witchers and mages here. _No, there’s a little girl named Ciri,_ argues another voice in his mind, louder and more insistent than the witcher’s.

He’s under Axii, he realizes, feeling strangely detached from his body, but far more aware than he’s ever been under its influence before. Having realized so, it’s almost like a lucid dream—he grabs his mind and _yanks_ it from beneath the blanket of fog, and feels Axii snap.

The witcher blinks and recoils, then frowns and draws Axii’s pattern again. Jaskier feels it grab onto his mind, then slide off like water off a duck’s back.

“How are you doing that?” the witcher demands, stalking over and pinning him to the wall with one forearm pressed against his chest, and grabbing Jaskier’s chin with his other, gloved hand. Jaskier can feel the warmth through it, as well as the witcher’s warm breath ruffling his hair from standing so close. His arm is rock-solid underneath the armor, speaking of a strength that he’s famous for, and gods, Jaskier has never been this scared and this aroused at the same time.

“D—doing what?” Jaskier sputters, all thoughts entirely blank.

“Axii. Why isn’t it working?”

“I don’t know! Maybe—maybe Yennefer did something! We had a deal, you know—”

“Yes, I know about your deal,” he bites out, then sighs and pushes away. Jaskier is simultaneously relieved that he’s no longer threateningly close, and also lamenting the loss of his warmth.

“Stay here,” the warlord orders, as if Jaskier could do anything but. “And _don’t_ talk to Ciri.”

“What if she breaks in again?”

“She won’t, if she knows what’s good for her,” he says darkly, and leaves, locking the door once more behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Would you guys prefer me to post chapters as soon as they're ready, or try to stick more to a once-a-week posting schedule?  
> 2) If I write Geralt's POV, would you prefer that in this work or as a separate fic? There could potentially be spoilers/more info coming from Geralt, since he obviously knows more than Jaskier. And if I do post Geralt's POV, would you want me to wait until this fic is finished?   
> 3) Would anyone be interested in a fic showing Yen's backstory as well? it'll be touched on in this fic, but not in a lot of detail


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so! the results are in: we're near unanimous about posting asap, so tada, new chapter hot off the presses! as for Geralt's POV, it's a pretty even tie where people want it lol. I think i'll go with a separate fic after this one is done, so that people who don't want potential spoilers/who want to keep the mystery going can avoid it! there's a slim chance I might change my mind, because the future is both fluid and hard to see through, like soup. as for a possible yen-centric fic, there is indeed some interest, but don't worry, that won't happen until this fic is finished. 
> 
> anyway announcement over, now onto the chapter!

Jaskier doesn’t see Ciri again, not that he expected to. He suspects she’s been expressly forbidden from even entering the tower, judging by the warlord’s reaction. In fact, he doesn’t really see anyone for the rest of the day, not even for dinner—the witcher guarding his door hands him a plate, but returns to his stony silence immediately after. In fact, the entire keep feels quieter than normal.

Jaskier resorts to going to bed early, eager to escape the boredom and swirling anxiety in equal part.

Breakfast the next morning, too, is late; the sun is nearly at its zenith when he hears the knock on his door. However, rather than Eskel’s familiar, hulking form outside, it’s Yennefer, bearing only one plate and looking as if she’d rather be doing anything else.

“Oh. Hello,” Jaskier says, taken aback. “Where’s Eskel?”

“So ungrateful. ‘Where’s Eskel,’ he says, as if I haven’t taken valuable time out of my day to so graciously make sure he doesn’t die of starvation.”

“Well, pardon me for being a little on edge,” he snaps. 

She rolls her eyes. “Here,” she says, shoving the plate into his hands and gliding past him to sit on the edge of the bed. It’s like having a bird of prey watch him as he eats—and he’s the prey in this scenario. He eats quickly, not even tasting the food, eager to have her canny eyes off him.

He licks the remaining food off his fingers, quite enjoying her look of disgust as he does. “So,” he says breezily, “you never answered. Where is he?”

“He’s busy. I’m in charge of you from now on,” she says sourly. “As if I don’t have better things to do than babysit an incompetent idiot.”

“Hey, I’m a very competent idiot, thank you very much,” he sniffs. “What’s he so busy doing that you got stuck with me, then?”

She huffs. “You’re like a dog with a bone. Fine. He’s in Temeria, defending it from a Redanian invasion.”

“ _ Invasion?  _ Since fucking when has Redania been planning that?”

“You tell me,” she retorts. “We told them we wanted a non-aggression pact.”

That’s right, he remembers. The witchers offered his freedom in exchange for a non-aggression pact. And apparently, if Redania has decided to liberate Temeria, they don’t accept.

Which means they don’t care about his freedom. Which means he’s never going to be free again. Ever. It’s like Yennefer said, he knows too much, and now they’re either going to kill him or keep him forever, torturing him for information with no fear of retaliation. They have nothing to lose, and neither does he.

Redania has thrown him to the wolves.

He’s hyperventilating and he knows it, but he can’t stop, as much as he wants to. He hates that Yennefer is here, seeing him lose it like this with her shrewd gaze, watching him like a sharp-eyed bird watches an insect.

But then she’s there, catching his wrists where he’s clawing at his throat like he can’t get enough air. “Breathe, Jaskier,” she orders, putting a little suggestive power into it, and it gets a little easier to push through the panic, but his mind senses the intrusion and violently rebels.

“No,” he wheezes, “no—no magic, don’t—I can’t—”

“Fine, I won’t, but damn it, if you don’t calm down, you’re going to pass out.”

She’s right; he can feel his throat constricting even more, vision blackening at the edges, fingertips tingling and going numb.

The last thing he sees before it all goes dark is violet eyes filled with what almost looks like concern.

\--

He starts awake, muscles violently constricting to send him rocketing upright from where he’s lying. Someone moved him to the bed while he was out, and his fingers clench around the soft blankets as he looks around in a panic.

“Don’t start with that again,” comes a familiar voice from beside him, and he looks over to see Yennefer with a book propped open on her lap, sitting in the armchair next to the fire.

Her calm puts him slightly at ease, though the panic hasn’t fully receded, still threatening at the edges of his mind.

“Do you need a calming potion? Or will vodka do the trick?” she asks, and Jaskier sees that twin bottles have appeared on the low table next to her.

“Vodka will work fine,” he rasps. Any alcohol will do, really; anything to get him so stinking drunk that he doesn’t have to think about anything ever again.

He climbs out of bed and shuffles over to the other armchair, collapsing into it and uncorking a bottle in the same motion. He takes a long pull, wincing a bit at the burn, but it’s so worth it. He exhales, coughing a bit.

“Give it here,” Yennefer demands, taking the vodka and downing quite a bit. “Didn’t they teach you to share in Redania?”

“Yeah, but not with witches,” he retorts, yanking it back. “You brought two bottles, why not just open that one?”

“Too much work.” She takes it from him again, and they trade off swigs until Jaskier is feeling rather numb. Perfect.

At least, everything is perfect, until Yennefer brings up the source of his anxiety again. Fucking shit. “You have two options,” she begins.

“Oh, I have a choice now? That’s new.”

“Shut up, I’m talking. You have two options. One, everything continues like it has been. You stay here, in Kaer Morhen, except this time, it’s permanent. You’d probably be given a job of some sort, something to help you earn your keep. If you prove we can trust you, that you won’t try to kill us all in our sleep, you’d eventually earn yourself more freedom to move around, not be confined to this one room. You could have a life here.

“Or, your second option, we could let you go.” When Jaskier opens his mouth to interrupt, she gives him a hard look and talks over him. “It’s not so simple. We let you go—if you submit to a full memory wipe. Not just of Kaer Morhen, of witchers, anything like that—your entire life as a spy. You would most likely regress to young adulthood or even childhood—every memory that could even remotely spark knowledge of us, we would have to take. You would be starting an entirely new life.” She waves a hand. “Most likely as some insignificant sheep farmer or something.”

This can’t be real. Starting his life over? He can’t imagine it. “That’s not much of a choice,” he deflects, taking another swig.

“Well, it’s the only one you’ve got. You can’t go back to Redania. You can’t be let free to wander the world—that’s dangerous for everyone, most of all you.”

“I know, it’s just—can I think about it?” he pleads. He doesn’t want to face this right now, least of all when he’s drunk.

“Of course,” she says, in a rare moment of compassion, and hands him the vodka.

Sometime later, when they’ve polished off one bottle and are well on their way to starting the other, Yen clears her throat, bringing Jaskier out of his maudlin thoughts.

“So. I have to ask. How do you do it?” Yen asks blurrily. Or maybe he’s the blurry one. He’s too drunk for this.

“Do what?”

“How do you have mental defenses like that? I hate to say it, but I’ve hardly seen anything so strong. Very few humans are able to resist Axii, and  _ no  _ human can resist my mental magic. So. How do you do it?”

“Fuck off, you’re lying,” Jaskier snorts. “My mental defenses are shit, everyone knows it.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone. I dunno. M’teacher, he would—he’d say ‘s like teaching a dog to read.” He frowns. “Could you teach a dog to read?”

“Focus.” She snaps her fingers in front of his face imperiously, though she’s looking more than a bit tipsy herself. “Who taught you?”

“Not telling.”

She huffs. “Jaskier.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, but stops when the room spins threateningly. “It’s a secret.”

“What does it matter now? It’s not like you’ll ever see him again,” Yen replies, matter-of-factly. At the reminder that Redania doesn’t want him, he feels tears threaten. “Oh, stop that. I thought we had enough of that earlier.”

Jaskier sniffs, scrubbing at his eyes. He’s always been a weepy drunk, which is why he doesn’t drink very often. Not to mention, it’s especially dangerous when you’re in the spy business.

“Come on, you can tell me. Not even as—as enemies. Just as two people drunk off their asses.”

“Pshh, I’m  _ barely  _ past tipsy,” Jaskier says, trying to stand up, but collapsing back into the chair when his legs go numb. “Well, maybe a little drunk.”

“Well, far be it from me to tell you when to stop. You’ve certainly earned a drink or ten.”

“Yeah, I  _ have. Fuck  _ Redania,” he swears. “May those—those backstabbing bastards rot in hell. Fifteen fucking years, and what do I get out of it? Thrown away like—like garbage!” And now he’s tearing up again.

“Fuck Redania,” Yen agrees, raising a toast. “Fuck Radovid, and—”

“And fuck Stregobor!” he shouts. “Pompous ass. Knew he never liked me.”

“You know Stregobor?” Yen asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, for all the fucking good he did me. Fuck him and fuck his shitty potions. You know him?”

“Pompous ass is right. Drove me out of Redania in the first place,” she says darkly.

“Oh. The, uh, the decree, right? The order for the protection from magic…” he tries to recite, but gives up.

“Protection of the common people from magic evils. I’ll show them evil…” she mutters. “I left Aedirn’s court to set up an independent shop in Redania. So when the order came that all mages had to be registered and in service of the king, like hell was I staying. I barely got out with my life.”

Stregobor had often bragged of leading the witch hunts, Jaskier remembers. He always thought it odd, given that Stregobor was in fact a magic user himself, but Stregobor usually talked about the difference between controlled chaos and uncontrolled, blah blah blah, until Jaskier’s eyes were glazing over.

“And then you came here?” Jaskier guesses. It’s not the worst reason to come to Kaedwen, seeking refuge.  _ No, a far worse one is coming to assassinate the king. _

“And then I came here. Geralt is a far kinder and more noble leader than any other I’ve known, and I’ve known many.”

“Wait—Geralt? The warlord is  _ Geralt?” _

“Yes, where have you been?” she asks, looking at him strangely. “You went into this mission not even knowing his  _ name?  _ Where’s all that Redanian intelligence now?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “’S not like anyone else knows, if we don’t. The best kept secret of Kaer Morhen. Well, I guess second-best, since nobody else knew about Ciri, either.”

“I was wondering how long it would take her to sniff you out. Just so you know, if you even  _ think  _ about harming a hair on her head, I will  _ end you.” _

“Yeah, if Geralt doesn’t get to me first. Talk about overprotective,” he snorts, remembering wicked eyes and warm hands.

“For good reason. We know what lengths our enemies are willing to go to,” Yen reminds him.

It hits him like a brick to the face, the reminder that he’s technically their enemy, and worse, their prisoner. For a while, it almost felt like they were two friends getting drunk together, but obviously not. Who would try to befriend a killer like him?

Yennefer must notice that his mood has dropped, because she excuses herself. “Right. Well. This has been fun and all, but I’m too drunk for it being barely noon. The rest of the vodka is yours—just don’t drink yourself into a coma. I’d hate to have to save your life again.” She sets the bottle on the table next to him, not even wobbling as she stands, even though she’s wearing high heels and has polished off just as much vodka as he has.

“No promises,” Jaskier says, snagging the bottle and taking another shot as she leaves. And another. And another, and then he doesn’t really know how much time passes before he wakes up on the floor, and it’s dark out.

He lifts his head from where it’s pressed against cold cobblestones and immediately regrets it; the room is spinning something awful. He groans, and then groans again when the sound worsens the pain in his head.

He wants nothing more than to pass out again, but the growing nausea in his stomach has him dragging himself over to the tub, emptying his stomach shortly after. Gods. He’s  _ never  _ drinking again.

He spends far too long hunched over the tub, regretting his entire existence, when there’s a knock at the door, sending waves of pain rocketing through his brain. He groans again.

He hears the door open, followed by the telltale click of heels, signaling Yennefer’s presence.

“What?” he manages to grind out, pressing his head against the rim of the tub.

“I have your dinner here, if you think you can pull your head out of the tub long enough to eat it.” His stomach growls threateningly, and not in a good way. He shakes his head, hears her set the plate down on the table. He expects her to leave him to his misery, but she surprises him—she walks over to where he’s propped up against the tub and lays a hand on his head.

“No magic—” he starts to say, but stops himself when the pain blessedly abates. “What  _ is  _ that?” he asks instead, wide-eyed.

“You’re welcome,” she says shortly. “That’s the last time I’ll cure a hangover, you hear me?”

“You know, you could make a fortune doing that,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Used to. Then I got kicked out of Redania. Eat your dinner so I can leave.”

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” he says, but sits down to eat anyways. “Think I can handle not choking on my own fork.”

“I’m not so sure,” she teases back, but does sit down in the nearest chair and pick up a book rather than looming over him. He eats mostly in silence while she reads, clearing his throat when he’s done. She looks up.

“Right then. Have a good night, don’t die, et cetera et cetera,” she says, gathering up her skirts and the discarded plate, and making to leave.

Jaskier makes a snap decision before his nerve can abandon him. “Wait. Before you go. I have… an answer, I guess. To your question.”

“Oh?” She sits back down.

“I want to live. Everything I know, everything I’ve done? That’s who I am. I don’t know who I’d be without that. And even though I hate it here, it can’t be worse than being unmade. Not by a long shot.”

“I see. Well, it isn’t so bad here. I promise,” she reassures him, once again looking uncharacteristically soft. “I had reservations, same as you, when I first came here. I’d heard the same stories, the same horrors. And they turned out to be false, nothing more than backwater ghost stories and overblown propaganda.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jaskier says. “I’m still not convinced.”

“They’re good people, actually trying to make the world better. You’ll see that in time. And if that isn’t enough reason to stay, well, do it for selfish reasons. Nobody knew me as more than a village witch before I came here. Now I’m the most powerful woman on the Continent.”

Jaskier chuckles. “I could only hope to measure up to your immeasurable power and beauty, o graceful sorceress,” he says, sweeping into a low bow in an attempt to lighten the mood a little.

“Quite right, too,” she replies haughtily. “I’ll go inform Geralt of your decision. With luck, you can be out of here as soon as tomorrow morning.”

“Because I’ve had so much of that lately.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she says, and sweeps out of the room, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries. For once, he’s filled with a strange sense of—not  _ resignation,  _ because he passed that stage earlier when he learned of Redania’s decision—but perhaps the faint stirrings of hope. Hope, because maybe he’s still deep in the belly of the beast, but it doesn’t seem quite so dark as before.

Hope, because what other choice does he have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and also, I always welcome theories/speculation if you want to share! don't be shy :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey did you guys know that I love and appreciate you all? <3

He wakes just before dawn the next morning, nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He passes some time bathing, because like hell is he going to greet a keep full of witchers dirty. _If they let you out at all,_ whispers the voice in the back of his head, but he pushes it down. He feels like being an optimist today.

He dresses in the nicest clothes he finds—still a bit ill-fitting, not tailored for his size, but good enough, with no holes or stains. Of course he would prefer his own clothes, but he hasn’t seen them since he woke up in the dungeons, and has since written them off as a loss.

He tries to pass time by sitting and reading, but can’t help glancing at the door every few minutes in anticipation. When the knock at his door comes, he springs from his seat to open it scarce seconds afterwards. Yen is standing there, sans plate of food, and he feels himself grin.

“Eager much?” she teases, but he’s too excited to care about her ribbing.

“It’s going to be a wonderful day, my dearest Yennefer—I can feel it. The sun is shining, I’ve just enjoyed a very nice bath—wonderful trick with the hot water, by the way, was that your doing?—and, White Wolf willing, I finally get to leave this room!” he enthuses, spreading his arms wide. It’s a bit silly in a way he hasn’t acted since he joined the RSS, but he has a lot of pent-up energy with nowhere else to direct it, and besides, he was always a dramatic child.

Yen rolls her eyes, but Jaskier catches a brief flash of a smile as she turns away. “Come on. Breakfast first, and then you’ll meet with Geralt.”

She leads him down many flights of stairs and through winding hallways, following some route that he suspects would take anyone else many trips to learn. He himself has an excellent spatial memory—part of the job—so he’s able to create a mental map of the keep, each turn providing him with more detail that he roughly sketches in.

As they draw closer to what is presumably the dining hall, he can hear the sound of overlapping voices getting louder, along with the mouthwatering scent of various breakfast foods. When they finally reach it, though, all conversation abruptly stops, every eye trained on Jaskier. He fights the urge to fidget.

For the longest time, nobody moves. Jaskier’s eyes dart over the scene before him—there are maybe ten long tables, enough to seat two hundred, easily. There aren’t nearly so many witchers as that, though; there are probably thirty or so clustered around the two tables furthest from the door. Among them is the warlord, with Ciri next to him, and a few (presumable) mages, judging by their lack of visible mutations and the general air of smugness they each carry.

Yen holds her head high and leads him to a table somewhat separate from the group. Conversation starts back up again, but Jaskier can still feel eyes on the back of his neck as he eats. It’s worth it, though, for the chance to escape the confinement of his room, to hear something besides his own thoughts for a change.

And it’s… not unexpected, exactly, but it is _strange_ to hear the witchers like this, talking amicably, laughter mingling with the high-pitched giggle of the young girl seated so easily at the warlord’s side. He’s never seen them so relaxed, so… _human._

Yen doesn’t try to make any small talk, and Jaskier isn’t eager to either, with the surety that the witchers would be able to hear him no matter how softly he spoke. He eats in silence, as slowly as he can to draw out the experience, but all too soon his food is gone. He sets his fork down with a sigh.

Most of the witchers have already left, off to do… whatever it is they do all day, including the warlord and Ciri. Noticing that Jaskier, too, is done, Yen pushes her chair away and beckons for him to follow. It must be time for him to meet with the warlord about his future in the keep.

Yen drops him off outside a solid oak door and leaves, probably glad to be off of ‘babysitting duty’. He feels very abruptly alone, but shakes the feeling off. He’s been alone amongst wolves the entire time here, so why is it only hitting him now? Besides, he’s no shrinking violet, and as much as the warlord had frightened him the other day, he refuses to spend the rest of his life intimidated by the man.

He takes a deep breath and knocks firmly on the door, waiting until he hears a low voice say, “Come in.”

The warlord is standing over a table laden with battle maps and plans, though he straightens up when Jaskier enters, pinning him in place with that golden gaze.

“Yennefer said you wanted to see me,” Jaskier says, hands clasped behind his back.

“I do. We have a lot to discuss, it seems. You’ve chosen to stay here?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“I have,” Jaskier answers, and doesn’t get any reaction from the man. His face is carved from stone.

“Hmm. Yennefer and Eskel seem to think I should trust you. Prove them right,” he says shortly.

 _What, right now?_ Jaskier thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. “I’m not going to beg for it, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says irritably instead. “Trust me, or don’t. Kill me or keep me; but I thought I had some semblance of a choice.” He’s picking up steam now, with no sign of stopping. “ _Don’t_ play games with me, witcher. You’ve already taken everything I have, and could very well take everything I am too. Tell me, great warlord, does it please you, that I’m completely at your mercy?”

At that, he receives the smallest crack in the warlord’s expression. He looks—disturbed, actually, is the word that comes to mind. Good. So he isn’t untouchable.

“Hmm,” the warlord rumbles. “You’d do well to watch your tone. But Yennefer spoke the truth; you do have a choice here. We will always give you a choice, when we can. You’re welcome in our keep, but that welcome does not come easily, and our hospitality has limits. If I hear even a _whisper_ of treachery, I won’t hesitate to throw you in the deepest dungeons for the rest of your long, miserable life. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as a mountain river. And if you _ever_ try to use magic on me again—I don’t care if it works or not—I’ll burn this place to the ground, do you hear me?” he bites back, giving as good as he gets. He needs to show the warlord that he won’t be so easily cowed.

The warlord nods, something like grudging respect appearing on his face, before his stone expression settles back into place. “So we know where we stand. As for the day-to-day, you’ll be allowed more freedom, as long as you act wisely. For today, I’ll show you around the keep. We can find a job that fits for you.” He pauses, as if he’s expecting Jaskier to protest, but none comes. “Everyone pulls their weight around here, and you’re no different. Follow me.”

He leads Jaskier out of the office and back into the dining hall. “This is where we eat; breakfast is at seven, lunch at one, dinner at eight.” After explaining a few more details, he leads Jaskier through a side door to the kitchens, and then sizes Jaskier up.

“What?” Jaskier asks, not liking such close scrutiny.

“You don’t look very strong, but maybe you’ll surprise us. The cook always needs help hauling supplies, if you think you can handle it,” he says, face carefully blank, and Jaskier abruptly realizes he’s being teased.

“I don’t know, can the supplies handle me?” he shoots back automatically, and is rewarded with the smallest flash of teeth as the witcher turns around.

He spends the rest of the tour in a daze, wondering if he can get the warlord to smile like that again. He just looks so much more _human_ like that—not the menacing, stone-faced Warlord of the North, but simply Geralt the witcher.

In another life, maybe they wouldn’t be enemies. Maybe Jaskier would spend all his time trying to draw another smile out of him, with nary another care in the world.

But this isn’t that life, and that isn’t where they stand. They have a freshly-formed truce, of sorts, but that’s all.

The rest of the keep is more or less what Jaskier expected—towers with bedrooms, a courtyard where they train, and an alchemical lab for brewing potions and for the mages’ work. There aren’t many witchers about, which is odd—he expected to see them around every corner. A particular point of interest is when they descend deep into the keep, deeper than even the dungeons, to a massive room with heat pouring from it.

“This is the forge. You might be asked to bring supplies to and from here. Don’t open the doors—the heat is too much for humans to stand for very long. It’s how we heat the entire keep, actually, except for the towers.”

“No kidding. I’ve woken up frozen too many times when the fire died,” Jaskier says, and he would shiver in remembrance were it not for the scorching heat source right next to them.

“Hmm. I can see if there’s any spare blankets.” And he starts walking away like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just blindsided Jaskier with an unexpected kindness. But apparently that’s par for the course in Kaer Morhen.

They end the tour back at Jaskier’s rooms, and with a promise to look for more blankets for the cold winter nights.

When he’s left alone again, locked in for now, he feels the sting of being alone worse than ever. He knows he should be happy, happy to have somewhere to live in relative safety, happy to have more freedom, happy to not live in perpetual fear anymore, but all he feels is lonely.

He takes off his boots and throws himself over his bed, worrying at his soulmark, but not really expecting a response. He wasn’t mistaken earlier when he thought that the keep was too quiet; judging by how few people were at breakfast, and how empty the keep seemed on the tour, he suspects that a large number of witchers have been dispatched to Temeria, fighting Redanian forces. His soulmate might be among the ones fighting, and he ignores how it pangs his heart to think of his soulmate being injured, of his soulmate dying.

He doesn’t want a soulmate, he reminds himself, even though some small, steadily-growing part of him would maybe like to meet them, would maybe like to see if they’re as strangely kind as Eskel, as Yennefer, as even the warlord are.

Just then, he feels a sensation coming back through their connection. He breathes a small sigh of relief, admonishing himself afterwards, but closes his eyes to sense what his soulmate is sending.

 _Loneliness,_ is what mainly comes through, an echo of what he’s sure he himself is emanating. There’s also deep sadness, and an edge of defensiveness; which is fair, considering that Jaskier last sent pure hatred through the bond.

He cringes to think of it. He doesn’t want to say that he would take it back, but he definitely regrets it now. It was rash, and done mostly out of fear. Tentatively, he sends the smallest amount of remorse back.

There’s no answer for a good while, and Jaskier is sure that he’s driven them away for good this time. He’s so pathetic, can’t even hold onto righteous anger for long, can’t even apologize properly.

He almost spirals further into self-loathing, but a response interrupts him. What he mostly gets is a sense of forgiveness, but there’s also a hard undercurrent, something that seems to scream _don’t do it again._ That’s fair; Jaskier knows he’s quite frankly lucky to be getting a second chance at all. If there’s one thing he needs right now, it’s someone, _anyone_ on his side.

He shares his gratefulness through the bond, and receives a comforting warmth back. It’s like a wave of relief hits him all at once, making him slump bonelessly further back into the bed.

It becomes a feedback loop of sorts; they’re building off each other’s feelings, like he’s heard about in all the most romantic stories. Without even realizing it, he finds himself falling straight into a doze, lulled by the calm and soothing feelings sent to him.

His nap lasts until a few hours later, when there’s a knock at his door for lunch. To his surprise, it’s the warlord himself, arms full of a thick quilt. “Yennefer’s busy,” he explains, but it sounds like a feeble excuse to Jaskier’s ears. More likely, she refused to do the menial job of babysitting him again, and with so few hands left at the keep, he’s the only one both available and capable of… _stopping_ Jaskier, if he decides to cause trouble.

Jaskier isn’t complaining; it means he has more opportunity to study the witcher up close. Of course he’d gotten quite the intimate introduction when being pinned to the wall, but at the time he was more preoccupied with _don’t die don’t die don’t die,_ followed closely by a rather healthy amount of lust.

As they walk to the dining hall, Jaskier steals glances out of the corner of his eye. The witcher has the classic cat’s eyes, of course, and plenty of scars; both betray him as a mutant. But more than that, he really is quite handsome. He has a jawline that could cut, and his hair and beard are neatly groomed. Good hygiene is something Jaskier never compromises on.

And _dear gods,_ his body. It’s like if you gave a mountain muscles. It’s like someone carved a statue out of moonlight. It’s like if a rock troll and a god had a baby together.

None of these metaphors seem adequate to describe how truly incredible he is, but Jaskier never claimed to be a bard.

He forces himself to stop staring as they enter the dining hall, again full of witchers. This time there’s barely a pause in conversation, which Jaskier is grateful for. He sits down at the table away from the crowd, as he did earlier, but to his surprise, a plate thuds down in the setting next to him. He blinks in shock as he looks up to see Ciri taking a seat.

“Ciri? What are you—”

“You looked lonely. I’m sitting here today,” she says, tone already daring him to defy her, and wow, that’s a princess’ behavior, alright.

He goes to respond anyway, but before he can, the warlord is striding over, already cross. “Ciri, _no,”_ he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s perfectly safe!” she argues, crossing her arms. “You can sit here too, if it makes you feel better.”

Jaskier barely refrains from laughing at how well she seems to pinpoint his weaknesses and play him like a fiddle. No wonder she gets away with so much.

The warlord scowls; he looks like he wants to keep arguing, but he also looks immeasurably tired, all of the sudden. He gives in, shoulders slumping, and goes to fetch a plate for himself, before returning and sitting directly across from Jaskier. It means that he can sit and glare directly at him, and if Jaskier hadn’t already had a much more murderous version turned on him already, he would be sweating bullets.

As it is, he only feels goosebumps form on his skin, and steadfastly ignores it. Ciri chatters away next to him, saying things he can only half-listen to, but he tries his best to be a good conversational partner.

Over the course of the meal, the witcher slowly relaxes, and so too does Jaskier, until he’s almost enjoying it. Lunch ends all too soon, and he dreads being put back in his room like dishes stored in a cabinet, but he trots obediently back to his room when the warlord gestures for him to follow.

They take a different route than normal, along a hallway lining the courtyard, where Jaskier can see weak sunlight and snow-topped trees through the windows. He realizes that it’s been all too long since he last saw the sun; weeks, surely, since he first set out on his mission, and was forced to travel by night to avoid detection.

“Wait,” he says, clearing his throat. “Can we walk through the courtyard? It’s just…”

The warlord looks at him appraisingly; whatever it is he’s expecting to find, Jaskier doesn’t know, but he gives a small nod and adjusts course.

The first shock of wind when they step outside stuns Jaskier, and he takes a half-step back, stumbling directly into the warlord’s broad chest, whose arms come up automatically to brace him. “Sorry,” he mutters, staggering away, ears burning with embarrassment.

He _hmm_ s, taking a step back to regain his personal space. Jaskier turns away to hide his blushing, but is struck breathless at what he sees in the courtyard.

The witchers are sparring amidst the snowdrifts, rolling and dodging, swinging steel, throwing magic left and right. It’s a spectacular sight; bursts of fire spring from their fingers, or a shockwave knocks an opponent backwards, or a shimmering golden shield envelopes them only to explode upon impact seconds later. They move almost faster than he can see, but he catches sight of some truly impressive moves.

He doesn’t know how long he spends staring, mouth open in awe, but the warlord nudges his back and he shakes himself out of it. “Come on,” he says roughly, skirting around the fighting. Jaskier follows, still staring at the witchers the whole time, barely avoiding tripping on things in his path.

The adrenaline rush lasts until well after the door to Jaskier's room locks behind him. Jaskier is practically vibrating in place, beyond excited. Sure, part of it is knowing that he’s seeing things no human has ever seen before—witcher abilities are kept highly secret, for one—but more than that, it’s a burning energy beneath his skin, the urge to join them in sparring, to stretch his muscles for the first time in a week, to test his abilities against them.

Maybe, if he’s _exceptionally_ well-behaved, if he proves that he can be trusted, they’ll allow him to join in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tour time! no hot springs (the urge to give them indoor plumbing was just too much), BUT I have a headcanon that they heat the entire place with the massive forge underneath the keep. (let's make it fanon, lol :P)
> 
> edit: to clarify, I DO love the idea of the hot springs! but for this fic, since Jaskier stays locked up for so long, I thought it would be cruel not to let him be clean lol


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's officially midterm season, so apologies if updates slow down! but hope you enjoy this longer-than-normal chapter :)

He tries to broach the subject of sparring over breakfast the next day. Ciri has once again decided that she’ll be eating with him, or rather, that he’ll be eating with her, as she’d all but dragged him up to her usual table. Which means that he’s in the company of very many witchers, who are terrible at hiding their tenseness, though Ciri doesn’t seem to mind.

Right now, she’s chattering away about Cintran fairy tales. “Do you know any Redanian fairy tales, Jaskier?” she asks, turning to him. “It’s been so long since I heard any new ones.”

He tries to think back to his childhood; growing up as an orphan in the temple meant that more often than not, he had to make his own entertainment. He can remember a few stories, though, told to him and the other children over warm milk in front of the hearth during a bad snowstorm.

He taps his chin. “Let’s see. Have you heard  _ The Maiden and the Goose?” _

“ _ Everyone’s  _ heard that one!” she complains.

“Okay, just checking!” he throws his hands up. “What about  _ The Lost Prince?  _ That one is relatively new, I think.”

Her eyes go wide in delight. “No! Please, I want to hear it!”

“Alright then.” He takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time…”

_ Once upon a time, the king and queen ruled happily over the land. There was no famine, and no war, because how could there be, when they took such good care of their people? The kingdom was happy as could be, and only grew happier at the announcement of the birth of a new prince, their only heir. _

_ But not all were happy at this news. There was an envious noble by the name of Vagimor, who wanted power, and hatched a plan to take it by force. He rounded up those he could find, those with jealous hearts and evil pasts, and they took the castle by storm. The land had never seen such destruction before—fields and homes across the land burned with their ire. Vagimor marched into the royal chambers and killed the king and queen himself, washing his hands with their blood to cement his gory rule. _

_ He ordered his most trusted man, Zaltin, to take the young prince and drown him. Zaltin took the babe, but was overcome by guilt and shame at his deeds. He snuck away to the temple and switched the young prince with a babe born still, reporting his success to Vagimor after. _

_ The lost prince was hidden away for eighteen years while Vagimor’s men ruled with iron fists, until, on the eve of his birth, the young prince returned to the kingdom and laid claim to his throne. He drove out the usurpers and liberated his people from their evil rule, and they all lived happily ever after. _

Jaskier finishes his story and clears his throat, taking a drink to wet it.

“Oh, that’s a good one! Wasn’t that good, Geralt?” she asks, elbowing the man in question.

“Hmm. A pretty story. Endings are rarely so happy in real life.”

“It’s a  _ fairy tale _ . It’s  _ supposed _ to have a happy ending,” Ciri says crossly.

“This breakfast is about to come to a happy ending. Isn’t it past time for your lessons with Yen?” the warlord asks.

Ciri groans. “But I want to hear more of Jaskier’s stories!”

“You can come by my room tonight, if you like, and I can see what else I can dredge up,” Jaskier offers, glancing at the warlord to make sure he’s okay with that.

He receives an appraising glance in turn, and then a small nod. “But I come too,” he stipulates, and Jaskier expected nothing less.

“Right then, that’s that. It’ll be a grand gathering.” He smiles tentatively at her, and gets a blindingly bright grin back. And with that, she clears her plate and runs off to her lessons for the day.

Jaskier turns to the warlord, whose gaze hasn’t left him the entire meal. “Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier asks, barely refraining from smiling when his cat eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“No,” he grunts, recovering quickly, and then stands up abruptly. “Come on. Time for chores.”

He leads Jaskier back to the kitchen, where dishes are piling up as breakfast ends. “You’re on dish duty for breakfast every day this week. If you finish before lunch, you can work on scrubbing the floor clean.”

Jaskier grimaces, but doesn’t complain. It’s not like he didn’t do chores at the temple. He’ll survive. And as long as he never has to muck out a stable—

“In the afternoons you’ll be helping muck out the stables.”

Shit, he asked for that one, didn’t he? He nods glumly and rolls up his sleeves. The warlord leaves him with three unfamiliar witchers for company, departing to go do whatever it is warlords do all day.

Jaskier daydreams while he works, idly turning an ear to the witchers’ conversation every so often. He’s almost done with his pile of dishes when something catches his attention.

“…might be coming home soon. Eskel says they’ve fought their way almost to the palace,” says the witcher with red hair.

“It’s about fucking time. Shouldn’t have taken even that long. There’s, what, like twenty patrols out there? Piece of cake,” snorts the witcher with the scar along his chin.

“Yeah, but it’s  _ Redania.  _ Stubborn little fucks don’t know when to give in,” Red Hair reminds him, then throws a glance at Jaskier. Jaskier drops his gaze, cheeks burning at being caught listening in, and returns to very thoroughly scrubbing the plate.

The conversation turns away from the fight in Temeria, then, to more mundane things—the arrival of the next merchant caravan, and some sword a witcher named Kolgrim apparently forged, and what techniques Chin Scar wants to work on during training today. Jaskier badly wants to chip in, ask if he can join them, but bites his tongue. It’s not the time or place.

Once the witchers are done with their share of the dishes, Chin Scar and Red Hair file out, leaving Jaskier alone with the third witcher, who pulls out a pocketknife and a block of wood, setting herself up in the corner to supervise as Jaskier gets to work scrubbing the floors.

It’s something he hasn’t done since he was maybe ten, before he was smart enough to swap chores for something outside, but he falls back into the rhythm of it easily. Dunk the sponge in the bucket, wring it out, scrub the dirt from the stone floor, repeat.

He gets lost in the repetition, lulled into a stupor by boredom and the soothing sound of metal shaving wood. He doesn’t even notice he’s done until he’s run out of floor to scrub.

The whittling witcher notices he’s done, because she pockets her knife and half-finished sculpture, hopping down from the counter where she was perched. “Come on. Stables,” she orders, sounding utterly bored.

He’s dreading the stables too, although the fresh air on the walk there is nice. He takes in deep lungfuls of clean mountain air, refreshing after all morning spent with the scent of harsh lye in his nose.

He immediately regrets his deep breaths when they near the stables, and he’s immediately confronted with the smell of pungent horseshit.

He wrinkles his nose and surreptitiously breathes through his mouth, though not surreptitiously enough judging by the smirk Whittler gives him.

“Geralt’s in there,” she says, nodding towards the stable doors. “Don’t touch the horses, or he’ll probably cut your hands off,” she adds. He cracks a smile; he didn’t know witchers had a sense of humor. But she continues staring at him, expression completely blank, and it falls. Shit, is she not joking?

He gulps and heads inside, eager to get away from her unnerving gaze. At first, he doesn’t see the warlord at all; it’s only when he rounds the corner, heading towards a low murmuring coming from the stall at the end, that he sees a flash of white hair tied back.

He’s apparently absorbed in caring for his horse, although Jaskier doesn’t doubt for a second that he knew Jaskier was here the second he walked in.

Jaskier stands there awkwardly for a minute, before clearing his throat. The warlord glances over, a single eyebrow raised.

“Hi. Um. What do you want me to do?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as hopelessly lost as he must look.

The warlord hangs up the horse brush he was using and picks up a pitchfork, and Jaskier has a wild moment where he’s sure that he’s about to be impaled. But the warlord just hands it to him and motions towards an empty stall. “Scoop out all the hay and then lay a fresh layer down in the stall.”

“Right. Sounds easy enough,” Jaskier answers, determined not to make a fool of himself in front of the warlord.

It takes a while to get the hang of; while he theoretically knows how to use a pitchfork, it’s only as a potential improvised weapon, not as a tool for farm life. But he manages to muck out the stall, and then moves onto the next and then the next, and even relaxes a little in the presence of the warlord.

He’s proud when he finishes mucking out the stables, even though he’s pretty sure his sense of smell has been ruined forever. He puts aside the pitchfork and mops his brow; though it’s cold outside, the stables are well-insulated, and he’s worked up a sweat.

The warlord must notice that he's done, because he’s suddenly there, moving in that silent witchery way, and Jaskier has to fight his instinct to jump. “All done,” he informs the warlord, not bothering to keep the note of pride out of his voice, and swears he sees the faintest trace of a smile appear. It makes him feel even prouder to have accomplished that.

“Hmm. Decent job,” the warlord congratulates him, which Jaskier chooses to think of as effusive praise.

“Why thank you,” he says, bowing exaggeratedly. “Only the very decent-est for our lovely steeds here.”

“Hmm. Go clean up before lunch,” the warlord orders. “You stink.”

Jaskier gapes at him in mock offense. “Excuse you! We can’t all smell of—of heroics and heartbreak,” he shoots back, and wow, where did that come from?

“It’s onion,” replies the warlord flatly. Was that another  _ joke?  _ Do all Kaer Morhen’s residents have just lethal amounts of sarcasm in them?

Jaskier mulls it over in the tub as he scrubs himself clean. It’s strange—when did he start thinking of them not as monsters, but as people, the same as him, with kindness and jokes and—and entire  _ personalities? _

It’s strange, but at the same time, it somehow makes perfect sense, as if having his entire worldview challenged has opened up an entirely new realm of possibilities, where witchers can, laugh, and love, and  _ live. _

And they do, all of it, he’s seen it with his own eyes—what is it when the warlord looks at Ciri, if not love? And what is it, when the witchers get that blank expression, if not (invisible) laughter?

It’s a lot to think about. He stays in the bath, lost in thought, until the water gets cold and his fingers prune up.

And at lunch he watches carefully; watches the witchers as they interact with each other, watches the mages tease them with no fear of retribution, watches Ciri completely safe in the knowledge that nobody here would ever hurt her, would even die for her if it came to it.

And it all comes together to form a picture in his mind, a new understanding of life at Kaer Morhen—lively, and communal, and bonded together by unbreakable ties.

“Jaskier,” Ciri says, snapping her fingers in front of his face, and it sounds like it isn’t the first time she’s said it.

“What? Sorry!” he says, snapping to attention. “What did you say?”

“I  _ said,  _ do you want to watch training with me today? Aunt Yen said I could have the afternoon off because she has a headache.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat at the prospect; Jaskier remembers well the excitement of unexpectedly canceled classes.

“Oh! That reminds me. I’d love to watch, of course, but I’d love to join in even more,” he says conspiratorially, leaning in close. Maybe if he can get her on his side…

“Yes! Please!” she shouts, turning big green eyes towards the warlord. “Please can he spar? I want to see someone new! And it would probably help me learn,” she wheedles, and Jaskier can pinpoint the moment the warlord gives in by the slump in his shoulders.

Ciri can too, apparently, because she grabs Jaskier by the hand and starts tugging, pulling him out of the dining hall. Good thing he was done eating anyways; there’s no stopping the will of an excited child.

The warlord, of course, follows, not letting her out of his sight for a second. Jaskier stumbles along until they get outside, at which point Ciri lets go to rush over to a rack of wooden weapons.

“No weapons, Ciri,” the warlord calls.

“But—”

“No. That’s final. Go stretch, and then work on your sword forms.”

“But I want to spar with Jaskier!”

“Maybe next time,” the warlord says, voice a bit softer, but still with that stern edge to it. “For now, just watching.”

She groans, but obediently plops down and begins stretching. Meanwhile, the warlord motions for Jaskier to follow him towards some chests stacked up against the southern wall.

“You’ll need armor,” he explains, and starts digging around in one of the chests. Jaskier shrugs and turns to the nearest chest himself, rummaging until he finds something that looks like it might fit.

He’s lacing up a leather jerkin when the warlord turns around, and smirks at what he sees. Jaskier blushes. “What?” he asks defensively.

“That’s the gear we give to the trainees,” he says dryly, and Jaskier blushes hotter.

“Well,  _ excuse  _ me. We can’t all be built like brick houses,” Jaskier replies, turning away so he doesn’t have to face the witcher’s grin. He picks up a spare set of leather greaves and vambraces, tightening the laces to fit. Godsdamned huge witcher muscles. He misses his own gear; it took time to find the perfect fit and style to complement his skillset.

But he’ll have to make do with this.

With his armor in place, he goes to grab a training sword, but a hand shoots out to stop him. Jaskier throws him a confused look.

“No weapons,” the warlord grunts, and something inside of Jaskier withers. But of course it makes sense; why would they allow a prisoner weapons?

“Fine,” he says curtly, and turns on his heel towards the training grounds. The witchers are battling in pairs right now, although they’re not using any magic, just swords. One by one the matches come to an end, one partner ending up lying in the dirt, and once all movement has stopped, the warlord signals to a slimmer, dark-skinned witcher, who comes trotting up obediently.

“Coën, you’re paired with Jaskier for the next round. Hand-to-hand, no Signs, no broken bones if you can help it,” he instructs, and the young witcher nods, sizing Jaskier up. Jaskier bares his teeth in a grin.

They walk into a cleared-out patch of dirt, the rest of the witchers in a ring around them, not even trying to disguise the naked anticipation on their faces. It feels like being back in RSS training, the eyes of the other recruits following his every move as he sparred with his partner.

This fight promises to be nothing like that, though. Coën lunges for him, too fast to follow, and Jaskier barely manages to dodge out of the way. He’s  _ fast. _

Jaskier spins on his heel, throwing out a leg in an attempt to trip the witcher, who easily avoids it and counters with a strike to Jaskier’s ribs.

The breath leaves him in a  _ whoosh  _ as Coën’s fist connects, and his back hits hard-packed dirt. His training has him rolling in a split second to avoid being pinned. Within moments he’s back on his feet again.

Coën is still, waiting for Jaskier to make the next move. Jaskier sizes him up, purposefully telegraphing a feint to the left, before spinning and aiming a kick to the legs. To his surprise, it works, and Coën goes to his knees, but yanks Jaskier down with him.

They’re both on the ground now, grappling for a position on top. Coën has the advantage of witcher strength, but Jaskier is slippery, quite good at breaking out of holds, and neither opponent can gain a clear victory.

“Alright, enough,” the warlord’s voice cuts through after a few tiresome minutes. They break apart, Jaskier panting with exertion. Coën stands first, offering a hand to Jaskier, who takes it, surprised.

“Good fight,” Coën congratulates him, thumping him on the back, and it only feels a little like he’s trying to knock Jaskier’s lungs out of his body.

“You too,” he wheezes, surreptitiously rubbing his chest. He’s sure to have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t think it’ll be so bad as any cracked ribs.

“Had enough?” the warlord asks, turning to him, challenge evident in his tone. What, he doesn’t think Jaskier can take it?

“Never,” Jaskier shoots back. “Who’s next?”

Next up is a red-haired witcher named Devan, from the School of the Viper, judging by his medallion. His fighting style seems to be more about quick, darting movements, relying on speed rather than strength. Once Jaskier figures this out, it’s only a matter of waiting for the perfect time to counter-strike, and with that Jaskier has him flat on his back, arms locked around his neck in a headlock.

Devan taps his leg twice and he immediately lets go, hopping to his feet and trying not to look smug. One tie, and one win. Not to brag, but there’s a reason he’s the best fighter the RSS has—no,  _ had _ .

His pride at his victory evaporates as soon as it had appeared. It doesn’t matter how good of a fighter he is—Redania fucked him over anyway.

“Ready for another?” the warlord offers, bringing him out of his thoughts. Jaskier wavers; he still has energy buzzing beneath his skin in a way that signals he’ll just be keyed up for the rest of the day if he doesn’t work it out, but he doesn’t necessarily want to go again.

The witcher sees his hesitation, and continues. “You haven’t lost yet. Think you can keep up the streak against me?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

It’s infuriating and wonderful, the smug almost-grin he wears, the way his eyes light up with mirth. It stokes the fire under Jaskier’s skin, and despite himself, he finds himself nodding and falling into position.

So it confuses Jaskier when he abruptly walks away, but his confusion evaporates when the warlord returns bearing two wooden training swords.

“What happened to ‘no weapons’?” Jaskier asks, but takes it when proffered anyway.

“I can take it,” he says, shrugging and then falling into a ready stance. Jaskier mirrors him; he knows the forms, has plenty of training with weapons of all types—though personally he prefers a dagger over a sword. It’s quieter, more discreet.

He still has enough skill to counter the first swing skillfully, though the force behind it takes him by surprise. The warlord is  _ strong,  _ stronger than Coën and Devan combined.

Jaskier launches his own attack back, but the witcher rolls to the side and comes up in an easy motion that puts him behind Jaskier.

Jaskier whirls around and barely blocks the incoming swing. It leaves him open on his right side, the one still smarting a bit from the earlier rounds, and when the wooden sword comes up again, the warlord disarms Jaskier with a flick of his wrist. He flails for balance, weaponless.

In a last-ditch attempt, he leans into the motion and rolls, coming up with a handful of dirt that he throws in the witcher’s eyes. It only stops him for a moment, but it’s enough for him to tackle the witcher by the legs.

The gods aren’t on Jaskier’s side, though, or maybe he’s just that good; the instant his back hits the ground, the warlord rolls them over and easily pins Jaskier, sitting on his hips and holding the wooden sword at his throat.

Jaskier's heart is beating  _ hard,  _ blood flowing hot to places it  _ definitely shouldn’t be oh gods.  _ “I yield,” he gasps out, desperate to get the witcher off him before he utterly embarrasses himself.

The warlord rolls off of him in one easy motion. Jaskier scrambles to his feet and off the training grounds, ripping off his gear as he goes. He needs to get somewhere private,  _ now,  _ before anyone notices his reaction.

He doesn’t see the warlord watching him as he retreats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devan belongs to my lovely friend DancerIntheShadows! thank you for providing me with a witcher OC lol. and if anyone else has witcher OCs they want to make an appearance in this, hmu, i need to fill kaer morhen with many many witchers! 
> 
> also, next chapter will be earning the explicit rating (and will be my first-ever smut, yikes!) so heads up!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took longer than normal! midterms were a bitch and a half and then I had a minor crisis about where this story was going. but! here you go :) enjoy the spicy!
> 
> also, I forgot to mention this before (my bad), but thank you to eyesofshinigami and ruffboi for looking this story over as I write it!

Jaskier shuts the door to his room behind him, leaning heavily against it, still trembling from the adrenaline running through his veins. He takes a deep breath and holds it, then lets it out in a shaky exhale that does nothing to calm him down.

Maybe a cold bath will help? He needs to wash the mud and sweat off of himself anyways, and hopefully it will give him time to drag his mind out of the gutter.

Unfortunately, what with the enchantments on the water pipes, the best Jaskier can coax out is a lukewarm stream of water instead of the icy coldness he wants to plunge himself into. He sinks into the water and starts furiously scrubbing away.

Despite his best efforts to the contrary, his mind begins to wander once again, dwelling on the heady sensation of the warlord’s body pressed against his own, the hard line of his sword at Jaskier's throat, the way his hands held down Jaskier’s in an unyielding grip above his head.

And the way he pinned Jaskier so completely, his bulk large enough to completely cover Jaskier’s body, the way Jaskier felt  _ so delicate  _ against his strength…

Biting his lip, Jaskier’s hands drift lower. He knows it’s a terrible idea, but his self-control is rapidly fraying. He allows himself to run his hands along his chest, imagining them to be bigger, calloused, strong. Would the warlord be gentle? Weeks ago, Jaskier would have said absolutely not. Not the feared conqueror of the north, whose bloody campaign has left scars that run deep across the Continent.

But now, now that Jaskier’s seen the man behind the myth, has seen the way he treats Ciri so gently, has seen the way he respects his men like no other ruler Jaskier has ever known; now, Jaskier knows that there’s an inexplicable softness underneath all that steel.

Jaskier’s hands drift even further south, until he’s just barely brushing against his cock, which is rapidly filling. Would the warlord’s cock match everything else about him? Would it stand strong and proud? Would it fill Jaskier’s hands, his mouth,  _ him ? _

And would he show the same prowess in bed that he does in battle? Would he pick Jaskier up with ease, pinning him to the wall the same way he did during their first meeting? Jaskier would melt under his touch, would try to fight back against his hold and melt even further when finding himself unable to.

Jaskier’s hand speeds up under the water, hurtling closer and closer to the edge after so long denied. Were it the warlord’s broad hands on him, Jaskier is sure he would have peaked already, would have peaked moments after he first touched him. And afterwards, would the warlord capture his mouth hungrily, tongue sliding hot against Jaskier’s, until he too came?

Jaskier is close, so close. He’s fully caught up in the fantasy of it all, stripping his cock furiously, biting his lip bloody in an attempt to keep any noise from escaping.

So when the knock at the door comes, it surprises a high-pitched yelp from him. He yanks his hand away from his cock like he’s been burnt. “Just a second!” he calls, face aflame.

He rinses and dries off as quickly as he can, furiously willing his cock to soften. After several painful minutes, it does, and he puts on a pair of baggier pants in an attempt to hide anything incriminating.

Now dressed, but with his hair still dripping, he pulls the door open, a little irritably. “Yes?”

“Ciri has requested your presence at dinner this evening,” Yen says smoothly, eyebrow arched, as if she knows exactly what he’s been doing. Or maybe that’s just her face. Either way, Jaskier’s face is burning at her look.

“Alright, I’ll be there,” he says, though he truly doesn’t know why Ciri is so open with her attachment to him. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t truly know the extent of his actions, his crimes against her people. He tries to ignore the little pang of guilt that comes with that thought.

“Good,” Yen replies. “Now, if you’re not busy, I need help organizing some supplies.” She casts a glance around his room, then looks pointedly at Jaskier, as if to say,  _ and what could you possibly be busy with? _

He sighs. He’s not likely to get any time alone again until tonight, and the mood has been mostly killed by now, so he agrees. “Fine. Lead the way.”

She takes him up to her rooms, which only makes him panic a little bit at the memory of what happened last time he was here. But he swallows it back and follows her inside, where a truly frightening array of bottles and vials and pouches and boxes litter the floor. Scattered on every other available surface is a wide variety of herbs, roots, and other, slimier things. Potion ingredients, perhaps?

“Right. I need these sorted by order of toxicity. Don’t touch anything if you don’t know what it is.” He casts a dubious look at her. He’s no mage or alchemist.

“Oh, come on. Surely you know even the most basic plants? Then again, by the look of you, I wouldn’t think you would know the first thing about herbalry, or any other survival skills, really.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving. For example, just looking at you, I would think you actually had a heart underneath all that lipstick,” he fires back.

“Funny,” she says, completely deadpan. “Kaer Morhen’s been needing a jester, like all the other courts. Perhaps you’d like to try out for the position?” she says mock-sweetly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to overwhelm anyone with the wealth of comedy running through my veins. I’ll have to pass.”

“Shame. But at least you’ll have more time to actually do your work. Now. More sorting, less babbling, if you please.” She turns away and picks up a mortar and pestle, grinding up some unknown ingredient. Jaskier sighs and sits down at the table.

To his relief, he does actually recognize many of the ingredients in front of him. Most of them he’s either seen in the wild, or Stregobor has taught him about, as part of his training. It’s important to know the best herbs for a fast-acting (or slow-acting, if the occasion calls for it) poison in the assassin business.

He sorts everything he knows, tucking them away in little bags or vials or bottles as appropriate, and then moves on to the components he’s less sure about. Fortunately Yen is willing to help him if he doesn’t recognize any by sight, and by the time he’s finished with those, the sun has fully set, the candles and sconces in the room have lit themselves, and Jaskier’s stomach is growling.

“When’s dinner, again?” he asks hopefully.

Yen doesn’t look up. “Soon. How far along are you?”

“See for yourself,” he replies, spreading his arms wide. She turns around, surveying the decided lack of mess, and nods sharply.

“Good, for now. I suppose we can head down to the dining hall, lest we be trampled by hungry witchers if we wait any longer.”

Jaskier tries futilely to dust off his hands, noting with envy the way Yennefer has stayed immaculate the entire time. He supposes magic does have its perks.

“What were you working on?” he asks, as they head to dinner.

“A curse for meddlesome assassins who stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. The longer he stays here, the less her barbed words seem like genuine threats. “Nah, I bet it was a love potion, right? Sure to win over the hearts of friends and enemies alike?”

They banter back and forth until they enter the dining hall, where it’s too loud to be heard unless you shout, which Yennefer is much too dignified for, unless the occasion calls for it.

Dinner itself is controlled chaos, as always. Despite Ciri chattering away at his side, and the raucous interactions of the witchers, Jaskier only has eyes for the warlord. It’s like once he decided to let himself think about him, now he can’t stop. it’s just—it’s fascinating, the way he moves so precisely, whether that’s to reach out and bring a goblet of ale to his lips, or to deftly catch a butterknife that someone sends flying.

Jaskier just hopes he isn’t being too obvious with his subtle glances and too long-pauses in conversation.

Yen elbows him. “You’re staring,” she prods. “Did you get hit by a love potion when I wasn’t looking?”

“No!” he sputters. “I’m not staring! Ciri, dear, what were you saying?” he says, attempting to deflect the conversation. Yen doesn’t look amused.

Ciri huffs. “I was  _ saying,  _ then the troll woke up, and…” She continues, though Jaskier doesn’t pay as much attention as he should. He manages to tear his eyes away from the warlord, at least.

That is, until he laughs at something Ciri says, throwing his head back, and Jaskier’s gaze is inevitably drawn to the long, pale line of his neck. He wants to bite it—and not in the ‘tear-your-throat-out’ kind of way.

He shakes his head at the thought.  _ What  _ is  _ wrong  _ with him? That’s his captor right there, the leader of the people he’s hated for so long; who gives a damn that he's pretty? Or that he’s kind, or that he treats everyone with respect, enemy or not?

_ Snap out of it, Jaskier,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ The last thing you need is to go catching feelings. _

The rest of dinner passes in a blur, Jaskier all too eager to get back to the privacy of his room, away from the enticing sight of the warlord laughing.

Just as he pushes his chair back to excuse himself, Ciri does the same, making as if to follow him. “What?” she asks, when he only looks at her in confusion. “You said you would tell me more Redanian fairy tales tonight.”

“I did say that, didn’t I,” he says, only barely managing to keep his tone light instead of frustrated. But he can’t very well break a promise to a princess.

The warlord, of course, accompanies them back to Jaskier’s room. He installs himself in the corner, rather menacingly, Jaskier might add, noting the way the shadows obscure everything except his cat’s eyes, which seem to glow in the dim light cast by the fireplace. Jaskier shivers.

Ciri settles into one stuffed armchair, looking at Jaskier expectantly, and he sits down across from her. It means that he can just barely see the warlord out of the corner of his eye.

He clears his throat. “Alright, then. What type of fairy tale would you like to hear?”

“Something sad,” she requests.

“Hmm. How about  _ The Crane Wife?”  _ He begins, falling into the familiar patterns of words memorized after countless repetitions. He can almost imagine he’s back in Lettenhove under the careful watch of Mother Nerissa, huddled close to the other children as she weaves tales.

After  _ The Crane Wife  _ he tells  _ Daphne of Beauclair,  _ thought Ciri has heard that one before, and after that, she says she needs a happy one to finish, so he switches to  _ Petronella,  _ the story of a headstrong young princess that he suspects she’ll like.

When he finishes, throat just barely dry from all the talking, he’s surprised to see that the warlord has inched his way closer, and is now holding two blankets, one of which he tucks carefully around Ciri, and the other of which he hands to Jaskier. He accepts it gratefully, wrapping himself up tight, and settles back into the armchair.

Meanwhile, the warlord has gathered up Ciri in his arms, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Good night, Jaskier,” she says.

“Good night, Ciri. My lord,” he bids them, nodding his head.

“Geralt,” the warlord says, shifting on his feet. “You can just call me Geralt, especially if you’re staying here. It gets weird, everyone using honorifics.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier parrots back, the smallest hint of a smile appearing on his face, and just with that simple allowance, Geralt seems ten times more human. He didn’t realize how depersonalizing it really was to call him ‘the warlord’.

“Good night, Jaskier,” Geralt replies, and shuts the door behind him when he leaves to put Ciri to bed. Jaskier doesn’t hear the lock click, but unimaginably, he doesn’t feel the urge to instantly grab a weapon and begin his escape.

Not only is it highly unfeasible—he doubts he would make it further than twenty paces—but he also, against all odds, just plain  _ doesn’t want to.  _ There’s nowhere he would go, anyway, because like hell is he going to come crawling back to the country that abandoned him, and everywhere else pales in interest as compared to Kaer Morhen.

And his soulmate is here, to boot. Speaking of, he idly brushes a hand against his soulmark, not quite searching for anything in particular, but just giving a vague greeting, not expecting a response.

It still spikes uncomfortably in his stomach whenever he thinks of having a witcher soulmate, but he’s starting to think that it’s less the ‘witcher’ part than the ‘soulmate’ part he’s objecting to. After spending his entire life neither knowing nor caring about his soulmate, it’s difficult to wrap his head around the idea of trusting someone, of loving them so completely.

He wonders if perhaps he’s already met them. He can rule out a few people in Kaer Morhen—it’s certainly not Ciri (too young) or Eskel (not nearby). He doubts it’s Yen, as his soulmate is too nice to be her.

That narrows it down a bit. Honestly, he’s surprised that they haven’t sought him out themselves, since surely by now they must know that it can only be him; he’s the only newcomer to the keep, as far as he knows, and he wasn’t subtle about his initial hatred.

But they clearly want to keep their distance, for now, which is more than fair. Truthfully, Jaskier isn’t ready for anything approaching a relationship, either, especially not so soon after—well, after everything. It’s been a hectic time.

He lets his thoughts wander a bit, staring lazily into the fire, and debates actually getting up and going to the effort to put himself to bed, or just falling asleep here right now. It’s tempting, but he knows that he’ll regret not being underneath the numerous furs on the bed once the fire dies out, so regretfully, he goes to the trouble of unwrapping himself from his warm cocoon and getting into bed.

And then, of course, once he’s in bed, he finds himself completely unable to fall asleep. He huffs and turns over, punching his pillow into shape, but it’s like his skin is tingling with unspent energy.

Which makes no sense, because he’s exhausted after today. But despite all that, despite the chores and the sparring and the storytelling, his body thrums with energy, blood running hot under his skin.

Then, he feels it—his soulmate is broadcasting  _ lust,  _ of all things, maybe unconsciously. But it isn’t stopping, and Jaskier feels himself grow hard under its influence. Fuck. If this is the reason he’s so keyed up right now…

He bites his lip, thinking. What would be the harm in giving in? He was interrupted earlier, after all. And, he rationalizes, he certainly needs his sleep if he’s to keep up with the demands of tomorrow. One good solid orgasm should be enough to put him right to sleep, hopefully.

Mind made up, he rolls over to lie on his back, pushing down the hem of his underclothes and snaking a hand down.

Thoughts of Geralt spring to mind—and  _ oh,  _ isn’t that something, imagining calling him by  _ name  _ during a moment of passion.

He can imagine it all—Geralt pounces just after a sparring session, pulling him into an unused corridor, both of them panting hard. Their lips crash together, Geralt using his ceaseless bulk to pin Jaskier against the wall completely.

Jaskier melts into it—no, even better, he struggles against Geralt’s firm grip and delights when he can find no give, and  _ then  _ melts into it. Jaskier’s hand speeds up at the thought. 

“Geralt,” he gasps, breaking the kiss for only a moment, and Geralt smirks at the way his name sounds coming out of Jaskier’s mouth, desperate and wanting.

“Jaskier,” he growls back, and  _ fuck,  _ but it sounds fucking incredible when he says Jaskier’s name like that. Geralt nips across his chin, down to his collarbone, and Jaskier throws his head back, keening.

“Geralt,  _ please,”  _ he pants, “I can’t—I need—”

“I know what you need, Jaskier, fuck, you need this?” he asks, tugging at the strings tying his trousers closed. Jaskier’s cock weeps at the thought of those hands on him. In real life, Jaskier swipes a thumb over the head of his cock, spreading precome, delighting in the slickness that now eases his way. 

“Yes, Geralt—oh fuck,” he gasps, and squirms against the wall when Geralt finally frees his erection.

“Jaskier, want you,” Geralt murmurs, capturing his lips in another searing kiss as he starts to stroke.

“You can— _ have me, Geralt, take me—” _

Geralt speeds his hand up, and seconds later, he’s coming, spend streaking up to cover the borrowed armor and Geralt’s hand in equal measure. In an impossibly hot move, Geralt brings his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, looking Jaskier straight in the eye, his own eyes burning with lust, and it’s that image that finally sends Jaskier hurtling over the edge in real life. 

He sighs happily through the aftershocks, bone-deep satisfaction filling him with warmth.

But he knows he’ll be deeply unhappy in the morning if he doesn’t clean up, so he gropes around until he finds his dirty shirt from earlier, using it to wipe himself clean, and then prays he remembers to do laundry tomorrow.

But that age-old remedy for sleeplessness has definitely worked—he finds himself drifting off to sleep almost immediately afterwards, a contented smile still in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Halloween, to those who celebrate it! and, as many of you know, the American election is coming up soon, so uhhh I really can't say what will happen in regards to my writing motivation. hopefully the stress of it all drives me to write to distract myself 🤪 but basically i'm trying to say, the future is a wild card rn. stay safe everyone <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so. I decided I didn't like where my outline was going, so I've scrapped it. that's why this chapter took so long, and why the next updates will also probably be a tad slow. sorry! the story will be better for it, though :) anyways, enjoy!

Life continues like that for a couple weeks—breakfast in the great hall, chores, lunch, more chores, sparring, or, if he feels like having time to himself, reading books he’s been allowed to borrow from the massive library, then dinner, and some evenings Ciri will request a story. Even if she’s heard it before, she’s a very enthusiastic listener. Geralt is, too, although he tries to pretend he isn’t. Jaskier lets him have his lie, even though he can’t help but smile every time he hears a small scoff at the more ridiculous parts.

And some nights, after he puts Ciri to bed, Geralt will come back to Jaskier’s room, often with a bottle of wine that he splits with him. They drink together, and just talk, nothing of real importance, but it’s nice to get to know the man behind the mantle of White Wolf.

Jaskier is too intimidated to ask about how the battle for Temeria is going, but he does learn a bit about witchers, which is interesting, and not something anyone outside the keep is permitted to know, he’s sure. He learns what they used to do, before they united under Geralt, how they used to roam the Path as lone monster hunters, taking coin for contracts, near-universally feared and hated in equal measure.

Which Jaskier thinks hasn’t changed much, but Geralt corrects him, and that’s how Jaskier learns that the people in the warlord’s lands generally view him as a benevolent ruler, once they experience his rule—and Jaskier doesn’t think that he’s lying about their attitude towards witchers.

In return, Jaskier tells Geralt a bit about himself—where he grew up, and how he was recruited to the RSS, and some of the more outlandish jobs he’s taken.

And sometimes, if after Geralt leaves, Jaskier touches himself to thoughts of Geralt in his bed? That’s nobody’s business but his own.

It’s during a rare day off that everything changes. Jaskier is relieved of his chores for the day, and Ciri, given a day off from lessons by Yennefer, invites him on a walk around the keep. He assumes she means around the keep, as in, staying within the towering walls, but no, she means along the path that runs through the forest surrounding the keep. He eagerly accepts, excited for the chance to stretch his legs and explore.

There are three witchers who accompany them—Bennet, Schrödinger, and Mikolaj. Jaskier knows they’re more for his restraint than protection against whatever lurks in these woods, but he tries to ignore it and just focus on enjoying the beauty of Kaedwen with Ciri.

And it is beautiful—Mikolaj leads them down a switchback path (apparently called the Killer? Jaskier can see why, seeing as it’s incredibly steep, and he nearly falls more than once) down to the valley, and then they walk until the trees break to reveal a placid lake.

And then the silence of the snow-muted world is shattered by the sound of twin screams above them, inhuman and terrifying. The witchers immediately draw their swords, or, in Bennet’s case, axe, and fall into defensive positions. Jaskier gathers Ciri close to him—he knows that she’s more than capable of fighting, having been trained by witchers all her life, but that doesn’t stop the instinct inside him that screams for him to protect her at all costs.

Just in time, too, because two archgriffins (a mated pair, looks like) come wheeling out of the sky, screeching. Schrödinger yells, a high, feral thing, and leaps into action—literally leaps, springing with all the grace and power of a cat (or a Cat, Jaskier supposes) onto the male griffin’s back, slashing at its wings with his short swords.

Mikolaj and Bennet, meanwhile, go for the female—Jaskier remembers Geralt saying once, during one of their nighttime talks, that the female of the species could usually be recognized by its size, and was usually a much fiercer opponent than the male. From the way this fight is going, it certainly seems so; Mikolaj and Bennet are having a tough time keeping her away from Jaskier and Ciri, and keep having to herd them backwards, away from her beating wings and slashing claws.

None of them are paying particular attention to where exactly Jaskier and Ciri are being herded, though. It’s only when Jaskier hears a terrible booming crack echo from beneath him that he realizes they’re standing on the frozen lake, the shoreline having been obscured by snow.

The witchers are still on dry land, thankfully, because one wrong move could have sent them all tumbling into freezing water. But they’re not paying attention, too focused on the archgriffins, and so it’s up to Jaskier to get them both back to safe ground.

“Ciri, don’t make any sudden moves,” he warns, slowly shifting his weight away from her, so it’s not all concentrated in one spot. “Now, very, very, slowly, I need you to lie down flat. We have to spread our weight out,” he instructs, lowering himself down.

She does the same, getting down into a crouch before another sickening crack rings out. Jaskier knows, with sudden clarity, that there’s no time to crawl to safety. He makes a split-second decision—but it’s not a decision, not really, because what other choice does he have?

He pivots, snagging her by the wrist and heaving with all his might towards the shore. The abrupt shift of weight causes a cascade of cracks to form in the ice, chunks rapidly dropping into the choppy black water below. He tries to scramble backwards, but it’s too late; the ice falls away beneath him, and the last thing he sees before he plunges into the freezing cold water is Ciri, unconscious from a bump to the head, but safe on the lake shore.

When his body hits the water it’s like a thousand knives stabbing him everywhere. He can’t even inhale, the shock is so great, which might actually be what ends up saving his life.

But he doesn’t like his chances of surviving anyway. Cold water kills, in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. He can’t even force his muscles to unclench, can’t muster the strength to swim for safety, can only sink oh-so-slowly to the bottom, terrified, blind in the dark water beneath the ice.

He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, so hard and fast it sounds like the beat to a dancing tune. He’s truly going to die here, he realizes. At least he was able to save Ciri. She doesn’t deserve a death like this, not like he does, after the many he’s killed.

It’s getting hard to think, now, the cold slowing his thoughts, freezing his brain as well as his blood. His lungs are burning, and it’s hard to remember why he can’t just breathe in. But the desperation becomes too much, and he does, cold water immediately filling his lungs. He splutters, coughs, only succeeds in drawing more water in, and then it’s too much, too much for his overtaxed body to handle. He passes out.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t keep tabs on Ciri one hundred percent of the time; not only does he have people for that, but it would stifle her to constantly be under the close watch of a concerned parent. So he lets her run around as she pleases, as long as she’s being safe, and she can even leave the keep, provided at least one witcher goes with her for protection.

When she asks to bring Jaskier along, Geralt frowns, but agrees, and increases the watch to three, because although Jaskier may not be homicidal anymore, Geralt will take absolutely no chances when it comes to her safety.

He regrets everything when he gets the call on his xenovox, Mikolaj shouting for him to get to the lake, _now,_ with Yen too. He grabs his swords from their rack in his office, not even bothering with armor, and sprints up to Yen’s rooms. As soon as she sees the panic written on his face, she doesn’t even ask, just plucks the location from his mind and creates a portal instantly.

He charges through, not sure what he’s expecting—a fight? A rescue? An ambush?

What he sees is far worse—the _aftermath_ of a fight. Two dead archgriffins, royal ones, by the coloring on their feathers, and Schrödinger sits in the snow, nursing a broken arm. Bennet is leaning over Ciri, who lies slumped unconscious on the shoreline, bleeding from a cut on her head. He rushes over, dropping his sword (something Vesemir would have tanned his hide over years ago, but how can it matter, when his daughter is lying there, looking for all purposes like she’s dead, and the only reason he knows he isn’t is thanks to his witcher senses, which allow him to hear the steady beat of her heart—something whose rhythm he would know anywhere, even in death?)

The head wound seems to be the only thing wrong with her—her breathing is easy, there are no limbs lying askew, no other blood that he can smell or see. She’ll be fine once she wakes up, but somehow, that still doesn’t stop him from panicking.

He gathers her up to his chest, burying his face in her hair for a couple seconds, just taking comfort in the fact that she’s here, she’s alive, she’s mostly unhurt. Then he stands, cradling her like something precious (because she _is,_ she’s the most precious thing in the world to him) and striding over to where Yen is holding the portal open.

“Is she alright?” she asks tersely, motherly concern bleeding off of her. The only reason she didn’t rush over to Ciri too is because she knows that Geralt needs an immediate exit back to Kaer Morhen.

“She’ll be fine,” he reassures her, and she nods, tension bleeding out of here, though the concerned frown doesn’t leave her face. He goes to step through the portal, only one thought in mind—getting Ciri back to safety—but suddenly a great splash sounds from the surface of the lake.

Geralt turns, half-expecting a kayran or something to rise up from the murky frozen depths—that would be exactly what they needed right now—but to his relief it’s just Mikolaj, although then he realizes how odd it is, that Mikolaj was in the lake.

At first he thinks that he must have been thrown there over the course of the fight—griffins are notorious for dropping their prey from great heights—but then he sees that Mikolaj is dragging something behind him as he swims to shore.

Geralt makes an executive decision—nobody is actively dying right now, so he passes through the portal, places Ciri gently on Yen’s couch, and then goes back, jogging over to Mikolaj and the sodding wet heap beside him. “Go get warm,” he instructs Mikolaj, because hypothermia can kill even a witcher.

Mikolaj nods, too winded to speak, and walks through the portal. Geralt trusts that he won’t die, nor will he let Ciri, so he turns his attention back to what Mikolaj had pulled out of the lake.

With a sudden start, he realizes that it’s _Jaskier,_ lips blue, skin grey, not breathing. He looks like a corpse, but Geralt can hear the ever-so-faint beat of his heart, slow and sluggish. “Fuck,” he curses. What the fuck happened here?

He drops to his knees and turns Jaskier onto his side, hitting his back strongly, rhythmically. It takes a minute, but eventually it works, water bubbling from Jaskier’s lips as he coughs and chokes.

It seems like the water will never end, just an endless fount that pours from his mouth, but eventually it does, and though his breathing hasn’t evened out, Geralt feels confident scooping him up and taking him to the portal.

Bennet and Schrödinger have already passed through the portal; the only one left is Yen, who’s looking increasingly haggard the longer she holds it open. As soon as he’s through, with Jaskier in his arms, she closes it and sits down heavily on the couch next to Ciri.

While she catches her breath, Geralt lays Jaskier out on the opposite couch, quickly stripping him of his sodden clothes, ever-aware of the dangers of hypothermia.

Yen, once she recovers, looks over Ciri, waving a hand over the bump on her head. Geralt looks over, and she nods, seeing the question in his eyes. “No head trauma, just a goose egg. Let her sleep for now.”

Geralt nods in return, turning back to Jaskier. Yen joins him, though she’s looking a bit on the paler side. “Shouldn’t you rest?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” she bites back, and then closes her eyes, casting out with her magic. Geralt can feel when she does, because his medallion vibrates as it always does whenever she does something particularly powerful.

Geralt watches as skin turns from grey, to white, to red, back to a normal, healthy color. The terrifying purple recedes from his lips and fingertips, the air above his prone body literally steaming.

Finally, his breaths ease a bit, no longer with the rattle of moisture in his lungs, but that’s all Yen can do before she staggers backwards, spent.

“There. He won’t die, but he’ll need constant care for a few days. I’ve brought him back from the edge, but he could easily take a turn for the worse.”

“Thank you, Yen,” he says, and means it. He doesn’t know what he would do if Jaskier died—he hates to admit it, but he’s grown on Geralt in the weeks he’s been here.

And there’s the small matter of their soulmarks matching—but that’s beside the point.

Geralt escorts Yennefer to bed, though she bitches at him for it, and then picks up Ciri and takes _her_ to bed, leaving the only unharmed witcher of the trio, Bennet, to watch over her.

Schrödinger has skulked off somewhere—Cats are always cagey about injuries, and prefer to heal in privacy. Which leaves Jaskier and Mikolaj, who has stopped shivering, though he still looks extremely pissed off.

“What happened out there?” Geralt asks, and Mikolaj’s heterochromic eyes narrow.

“Those archgriffins attacked, and this fucker decided to take the opportunity to attack Ciri!” he spits, jerking a thumb towards Jaskier. “None of us saw what happened—we were too busy with the fight—but next thing we know, they’re on the ice, then Ciri screams, and then by the time the griffins are dead Ciri is hurt and unconscious, and he’s in the water, thank the gods.”

Geralt frowns. “Nobody saw anything?”

“Just Ciri hurt, and this bastard gone. Didn’t even want to pull him out of the water, but figured you’d want to deal with him yourself.”

“Hmm. Dismissed,” he says, and Mikolaj gladly heads out, leaving only Geralt and Jaskier. Geralt looks at him, really looks—he wasn’t wounded besides the danger of being thrown in the lake, so that rules out one of the griffins attacking him. It also means that he must have taken Ciri by complete surprise—otherwise she would have fought back, would have managed to inflict _some_ damage. He’ll have to talk to her about being more aware.

First things first, though—he has to keep Jaskier alive until he can talk to him, but he also needs to restrain him, for everyone’s safety. Normally he would throw Jaskier in the dungeons, but it’s not exactly conducive to recovering down there. The other most secure place in the keep—well, it’s Geralt’s own rooms.

This isn’t how Geralt imagined taking Jaskier back there for the first time, but then again, when has Jaskier ever followed expectations? He’s one big surprise after another. With a sigh, Geralt gathers him up, gentle despite the way his anger wants to treat him roughly.

He doesn’t come across anyone on his way to his rooms, which he’s thankful for; gods forbid they try to get involved. He’s already had far too many conversations with Yen and Vesemir about his soulmate, despite his best attempts to get away.

He puts Jaskier on top of his bed and reaches for some spare rope he keeps in his pack, for the rare occasion when he leaves the keep. He ties Jaskier’s wrists together and then to the bedpost, ignoring the voice inside of him that screams for him to stop, that he’s hurting his soulmate. Soulmate or not, he can’t ever trust Jaskier again, not after hurting Ciri. He’s still fighting down that protective instinct, that burning anger that demands retribution in the form of blood.

And he’s sure everyone else will feel the same once they find out what happened. The witchers are a forgiving bunch, but only once. This is strike two for Jaskier, which is two too many. It will be all Geralt can do to ensure his punishment is just and fair.

With Jaskier suitably confined, Geralt settles into a chair next to his bed to meditate. He’ll still be aware enough to hear if anything changes, but it’ll pass the time and allow him to calm down from the scare and subsequent anger of today.

He sinks into that calm space below awareness for perhaps an hour or two, and when he surfaces, it’s because Jaskier’s breathing has changed, rasping in his throat as he climbs back to consciousness. Geralt opens his eyes just in time to see Jaskier try to shift around on the bed, stopped by the tie around his wrists.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter open just as a furrow carves itself into his brow, tugging again at the rope. “Wha—?” he croaks, tugging again, as if that will free him. Then his eyes dilate, focusing on Geralt sitting next to him. “Geralt,” he says roughly, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. The change in position has him coughing, doubled over, burying his face in the blankets.

Geralt watches impassively. Everything inside of him wishes to be there, to comfort him, but he remains firm in his resolve. Right now, he isn’t Geralt, Jaskier’s soulmate, he’s the White Wolf, the Warlord of the North, and he has a prisoner he needs to interrogate.

“Why did you do it?” he asks coolly, watching Jaskier's eyes go wide.

“I—I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” He coughs again. “Where am I? And why am I tied to a bed? Because believe me, I’d love this in any other circumstance, but—” he breaks off, blushing red.

Geralt grinds his teeth. The audacity—to be so carefree and joking at a time like this, to pretend to be nothing more than mildly confused. He thought Jaskier was many things, but never stupid.

“You know why,” he growled.

“Ah, see, something makes me think that we might have different ideas of what’s going on here,” Jaskier hedges. “Spell it out for me?”

Geralt glares. “You hurt Ciri,” he states bluntly. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you from the ramparts.”

“Oh, _no,_ ” Jaskier says, face dropping. “Is she alright? I’m sorry, I probably should have been more careful—”

“Drop the act,” Geralt orders, and Jaskier falls silent, though he still looks mournful, and a great deal confused. “Don’t pretend you care. Don’t pretend you ever cared. Just tell me why you did it.”

“Of _course_ I care, Geralt, why wouldn’t I care—”

“Because we’re enemies! The worst part about it all is that I actually believed you. I actually believed you could change. Never should have trusted you.”

Jaskier looks stricken, eyes welling with unshed tears. “Geralt, I didn’t do anything, I _promise_ you,” he pleads. “Please. I would never hurt Ciri, not in a million years.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Geralt throws back, and it’s too much, suddenly. He’s become too angry to have this conversation right now. He gets up and leaves, locking the door securely behind him, not caring if he lives or dies because of his actions.

Which is harsh, but true. No third chances.

He goes to find Ciri, though she almost certainly hasn’t woken up yet, because otherwise she would’ve come found him immediately. She’s still in bed, eyes closed, peaceful. Unharmed. He sits down heavily on her bed, taking her hand in his, just taking comfort in its warmth, its reminder that she’s okay, she’s safe.

Eventually, she stirs, and upon seeing him, immediately climbs into his lap, as if she were small again. “Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, brushing a hand over her hair and rocking back and forth.

“Is everyone alright?” she asks, muffled from where her head is still buried in his chest.

“They’re fine. Everyone’s fine.”

“Even Jaskier? He was—gods, I was so scared, and he was on the ice, and—”

“What?” That doesn’t make any sense. Ciri has always had a big heart, but to be concerned over the fate of her attacker?

“Is he alright?” she asks, pulling back.

“He’ll be fine. Probably. Why do you even—Ciri, he’s dangerous. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” he reminds her.

“What?!” she tumbles off his lap. “Of course he didn’t kill me! He _saved_ me!” she argues.

Something has gone deeply, deeply wrong somewhere along the line. “Explain,” he demands.

“Mikolaj and Bennet and Schrodinger were fighting the archgriffins, and we got pushed out onto the lake. When it started to crack, Jaskier tried to get us off, but it was too late. He—he pushed me away, but he fell in,” she finishes, voice wobbly.

“So he didn’t attack you,” Geralt asks, voice flat.

“No! He wouldn’t!”

“…Right. Stay here.” He leaves her in her room and heads back to his own, wondering how he’ll explain tying Jaskier up and leaving him there. He pushes open the door to see Jaskier exactly where he left him, although his eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow.

He strides over to the bed and immediately unties the restraints, wincing regretfully when he sees the faint marks the rope has left. Throughout it all, Jaskier doesn’t wake, which is even more concerning.

“Jaskier,” he says, shaking his shoulder gently. No response. Louder, “Jaskier, wake up. We need to talk.” Still nothing.

He bends over, listening intently to Jaskier’s breathing. It’s weak, raspy, as if he can’t fully draw breath. Not good.

He gathers Jaskier up and rushes to Yen’s rooms—she’s the only mage in the keep, after all, what with the rest having been sent to fight in Temeria. He only hopes that he hasn’t screwed up too badly, and that she still has enough energy to save Jaskier after their horrible misunderstanding.

“Yen,” he calls out, barging in. Seconds later, she’s up, robe wrapped hastily around herself.

“Someone better be dying,” she snaps, but when she sees Jaskier in Geralt’s arms, her anger dissolves. “What the fuck happened?”

“I… left him alone, and when I came back, he was like this. He won’t wake up.”

“Gods above, Geralt, the _one thing_ I told you to do was keep an eye on him!” Despite her frustration, she quickly moves to examine Jaskier where Geralt has placed him on a couch. “Secondary drowning,” is her diagnosis. “Too much fluid in his lungs. I need to draw it out, but I don’t know how much I’ll be able to,” she admits. “I don’t have much energy after that portal, and after already healing him and Ciri once.”

“What do you need?” Geralt asks worriedly. If it’s a potion, a spell component, anything, he’ll make sure she has it. He can’t let Jaskier die now, not with everything still unresolved, not after he apparently saved Ciri’s life.

Yen shakes her head. “It’s not that simple. I simply don’t have the energy to draw on. I’ll try my best, but—”

“Use me,” he suggests. “Transfer some of my energy. I’m a witcher, I’ve got enough of it.”

Her brow knits. “It’s dangerous, Geralt. If he takes too much—”

“I know the risks. I can’t—Yen, he sacrificed himself for Ciri. I can’t let him die.”

She narrows her eyes, but softens. “Fine. On your own head be it.” And she places a hand on Geralt and Jaskier’s chests each, closing her eyes and chanting in Elder.

It feels like coming down from a potion high, back when they still had to take potions regularly for contracts. The blood drains from his face, his heart suddenly increasing in speed, pulse loud in his ears. He sways where he’s standing, knees going weak, but keeps himself upright through sheer stubbornness. Just when he thinks he might pass out, vision going dark at the edges, it stops, and Yen pulls back.

“Is it done?” he asks, sounding fuzzy even to his own ears.

“Yes, now sit down before you collapse,” Yen answers, pushing him down onto the couch opposite Jaskier. She doesn’t sound too stable herself, but Geralt supposes he’s asked quite a bit of her today.

“Thank you, Yen,” he says, just before his eyes slip closed and he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to nerdamongnerds, Eccentric_Scruffy, and DanceOfTheEntWives for Bennet, Mikolaj, and Schrodinger respectively! I hope I did them justice :) 
> 
> and thanks to eyesofshinigami for reading over this chapter! love youuuu


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eccentric_Scruffy posted a spin-off fic about Mikolaj [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27548674)! Go read about their boy!
> 
> also, if anyone's interested, I've just posted [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691931) about Geralt and Jaskier falling in love in a post-apocalyptic world :) should have posted it for October, but oh well!

Jaskier drags himself to awareness, feeling like his eyelids are being pulled down by sandbags. Every breath is a labored inhale, though it’s nothing like the painful, watery drag it was before. He remembers waking up in a strange bed, wrists bound to the bedposts—remembers his utter confusion upon waking, and then the heartbreak that followed when Geralt had accused him of hurting Ciri.

And then it gets blurry—Geralt left, he knows that, but everything after that is a haze of pain and struggling to breathe.

Clearly something happened while he was out, though, because he’s been moved, and is lying on one of Yen’s couches, with Geralt _directly across from him._

He jumps a little when he sees, and the sudden movement jars his tender ribs. He falls into a coughing fit, scrambling to sit up and alleviate the pressure on his lungs.

Within seconds strong hands are there helping him, supporting his back and neck gently as he hacks and spits. “Easy, Jaskier, try to breathe normally,” Geralt murmurs, and leans over momentarily to grab a small cup full of water that he holds to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier takes a shaky, slow breath in, holding it, and sips the water carefully. It soothes the ache in his throat that he didn’t even notice he had, and he gratefully drains the cup when Geralt allows it.

Coughing subsiding for now, Geralt lets go, lowering Jaskier to sit back against the plush arm of the couch. He’s been nothing but gentle, and it confuses Jaskier; last he knew, he was no better than a prisoner again. Geralt extends kindness even to his enemies, but not twice. Not after hurting his daughter, darling Ciri.

“Are you feeling any better?” Geralt asks, perched on the low table as he is, golden eyes level with Jaskier’s own.

“Mm. Some,” Jaskier rasps in response.

“Good. It was worrying for a minute, there. You… you almost died,” Geralt admits, breaking eye contact.

“Well, I have to say I’m very glad I didn’t,” Jaskier answers, much more jovially than he feels. “What I’m more concerned about is the sudden changes of heart. I’m getting whiplash.”

Geralt grimaces. “I’m sorry,” he admits, which isn’t what Jaskier was expecting _at all._ Being thrown in the dungeons again, maybe, or just outright killed. But not an _apology._ “It was my fault. Yen said you needed to be monitored, and I failed, because I was too caught up in my anger. It’s my fault you almost died.”

Jaskier’s getting whiplash _again._ Geralt’s mood swings rival a dragon’s, honestly. “But I didn’t die,” Jaskier says slowly. “So what happened?”

“Ciri told me everything. How you saved her, even at risk to your own life. I owe you—everything I have, I owe to you, for keeping her safe when I didn’t.”

“I wasn’t going to let her _die,”_ Jaskier says, aghast. “She’s a little girl! Anyone would have done the same.”

Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s again, piercing in their intensity. Jaskier is pinned in place like an insect on a table. “No,” he says gravely. “Not everyone would have. So thank you.”

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. “Well, you don’t owe me, at least. So you can just—just get rid of that idea right now.”

Geralt _hmm_ s. “Then how about this—I give you my trust. You’ve proven yourself worthy of my respect, and now of my trust, Jaskier. I trust you.”

Well shit. That’s certainly a far cry from the dungeons. “Thank you,” he replies, lips numb. “I—I trust you, too. In case that wasn’t already clear.”

Geralt smiles widely, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind thunderclouds, like tulips budding in the spring, like a miracle, honestly.

Jaskier wants to live on this feeling forever.

\--

He does, actually, live on it for a few weeks—things return to normal, or as normal as life at Kaer Morhen is, with all of his rights restored and with the full trust and backing of the White Wolf behind him.

Days are filled with sweat and labor, but laughter, too—a few of the witchers even start to warm up to him. And in the evenings, he tells stories, at first only to Ciri, but then his audience grows, one by one, until Geralt asks him to start reciting at dinner, like a proper court bard and everything.

And his nights are filled with Geralt—long conversations, games of Gwent, sharing glasses of mulled wine in front of the fireplace, wrapped in furs. Geralt is more withdrawn than usual, at first, but warms up over time.

Jaskier might have lusted after him before, but this? This has gone straight past lust and into dangerously uncharted territory. It’s not like he hasn’t had relationships before—there was that one girl who worked at the market when he was fourteen, and the stableboy who came to the temple to pray (and sin, but it all canceled out, didn’t it?) every week when he was fifteen. But those were the matchstick romances of the very young, neither lasting longer than a couple months. Nothing at all like the swooping feelings in his gut now, the way he looks forward to every chance to see Geralt again.

And on top of that, there’s the matter of his soulmate complicating the entire thing. After the incident at the lake, he avoided reaching out, for fear they’d think him a traitor. He’d wait for them to make the first move, he’d promised himself, but as weeks passed with nary another word (well, thought) shared, Jaskier was forced to accept that his soulmate has likely rejected him after one too many fuckups.

Which stings, more than he thought it would—he never meant to get attached, but he did, and now he’s praying the price for it.

He mopes about it for a few weeks, but to be honest, it’s so hard to stay so dour when he has to battle back feelings for Geralt every day. Geralt is a welcome distraction, at least, because Jaskier can imagine a relationship with Geralt until he’s blue in the face and not have to worry about anything coming of it.

Because clearly, nothing will. Geralt is the White Wolf of the North, and however much time he might spend humoring Jaskier in the evenings, he’s not about to settle for a mere spy—an _ex-spy, former enemy,_ at that. So Jaskier can simultaneously enjoy his company and envision a future with him, with no worry that any of it will come to bear fruit.

The entire affair, really, is new and exciting, and Jaskier has never been one to turn down an adrenaline-charged experience.

On top of that, it’s a welcome distraction from the otherwise sheer, mind-numbing boredom he’s settled into. Turns out that once he’s not focused on either hating everyone or scrambling to learn his place in a new environment, days at the keep are pretty dull. He’s never been one for routine, after all.

Geralt must notice his antsiness, because about a month after the incident at the lake, he comes to Jaskier with a proposal over breakfast.

“I’m sending a hunting party out today. Want to join?” he asks nonchalantly, as if Jaskier’s entire day hasn’t just been made.

“Really?” he confirms, and at Geralt’s nod, he lights up. “Absolutely! When do we leave?”

Just after breakfast, actually, and Jaskier is actually given a crossbow—not his own, which he suspects has long since been turned into firewood, but a nice, sturdy one, anyways. He heads out with six witchers, and they track a herd of caribou through the woods. Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to use his crossbow, since the witchers immediately spring upon the buck they find, but he’s not too upset about it—he got to get out of the keep, after all, and enjoyed the thrill of the hunt anyways.

Hunting turns into a biweekly occasion, each time a welcome opportunity.

“Why do you enjoy it so much?” Geralt asks him one evening, after a successful hunt in which he’d been the one to take down a doe.

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t know. I like the adrenaline of it, I suppose. I’ve never been one for sitting idle, even as a child. I was a right terror, actually. I don’t know how the priestesses let me get away with so much.”

“Mm. And then you became an assassin? Lots of sitting and waiting quietly in that, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Well, yes. But it’s exciting in its own way. You haven’t known true excitement until you’re perched halfway up a chimney, hiding from irate guards,” he laughs, remembering the occasion in question. “And there was a sort of… pride to it, I guess. The thrill of accomplishing something, of making a difference on the world,” he admits.

“Even if you regret that difference?” Geralt asks quietly.

Jaskier frowns. “I don’t know. I never really regretted anything… until I got here. How could I have been so blind?” he says mostly to himself, shaking his head. “They’ve got everyone fooled in Redania, you know. They think that witchers are brainless monsters, at best.”

“Don’t feel bad about it. Propaganda can be a powerful thing.”

“Yeah, but still. Shouldn’t believe everything you hear in stories, I suppose.”

Geralt snorts. “Especially not those ridiculous things you tell Ciri.”

“Hey! I have it on very good authority that I tell the _best_ stories,” Jaskier says, punching Geralt’s arm affectionately. Geralt catches his hand before it even gets close, which, unfair. He’s even further disarmed, though, when Geralt captures his eyes with liquid gold pools of his own.

He finds himself at a complete loss for words, wanting nothing more than to sink into that warmth forever. He leans forward, almost unconsciously, their breaths mingling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, almost inaudibly. “What do you want?”

The question throws Jaskier for a loop. _I want to kiss you, so badly it hurts,_ he doesn’t say. He knows why he’s holding back—he’s not good enough for his own soulmate, so surely he’s not good enough for Geralt. He has to be pulling Jaskier’s leg, because the mighty Warlord of the North would never take someone below his station, surely. Part of it might be the remnants of fear and distrust of an enemy—though it’s long since faded, the body remembers.

But a bigger part of him is clamoring to say yes. _Yes, Geralt, I want you, and it scares me to say—could you want me too?_

He’s spent too much of his life in fear and blindness, though. He takes the plunge. “You,” he whispers. “If you’ll have me.”

“I will, Jaskier. I didn’t know, at first, but—I trust you. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done… but I do. I think—Jaskier, I think I love you.” He sounds as shocked as Jaskier feels, but somehow, it also feels completely _right._ Of course, of course, of _course_ he loves Geralt. What else to call the butterflies in his stomach, the slowly-growing attraction, the trust and companionship they’ve built between them?

“I think I love you too,” Jaskier admits, to his utter disbelief, and it’s like falling and flying all at once. He takes a chance, closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Geralt’s.

It’s a heady sensation. Geralt’s lips are unfairly soft where his own are chapped, but Geralt still nips at them eagerly, broad hands coming to rest just above his hips. He pulls Jaskier closer, sliding one hand up his back to tangle in his hair, and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue alongside Jaskier’s, and gods, Jaskier could just die right now.

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. _Fuck soulmates. I want to live like this forever._

And then Geralt’s medallion starts vibrating between them, jolting them away from each other. Geralt is instantly on alert—if he were a wolf, Jaskier thinks nonsensically, his ears would be pricked—using his witcher senses to search for the cause.

Evidently he must hear something, because he goes tearing out of Jaskier’s room like there are hounds snapping at his heels. Jaskier sprints after him, because one, as previously mentioned, he’s never one to miss action, and two, he hasn’t been explicitly _disinvited._

And also, whatever this is, it’s just interrupted a truly spectacular kiss, and Jaskier wants to have _words._

He follows Geralt down through the various levels of the keep, until they burst out into the night, the courtyard completely empty but for swirling snow eddies that the wind occasionally kicks up.

Then, out of the darkness, a crack, a rent in the air, a burning orange line of fire that expands to form a ring. A portal. Jaskier can see a different landscape—a burning battlefield, where soldiers lie dying in heaps. A Redanian standard burns above it all.

This must be the Temerian border that the witchers have been fighting so hard to retake.

But more pressing are the two bodies that come stumbling through the portal. One is Eskel; Jaskier would know that large bulk and scarred face anywhere. The other is a woman he doesn’t know, but she must be a mage, because she’s holding open the portal with one arm and supporting Eskel with the other. “Take him,” she gasps. “Have to keep him away.”

Geralt rushes forward, throwing Eskel over his shoulders, who doesn’t do more than stir lightly at the disturbance.

“Triss, what—” Geralt tries to ask, but then she’s gone again, the portal closed behind her. “Fuck,” he barks out. “Get inside.”

Jaskier follows him all the way back to Eskel’s rooms, which are deep in the heart of the keep. When Geralt lays him out on the bed, Jaskier can see that he isn’t visibly hurt, at least, although he looks much wearier than when he last saw him, dark bags under his eyes and lines creased into his forehead even in unconsciousness.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jaskier risks asking, when there’s no information forthcoming from Geralt.

“Not sure,” he replies brusquely. “There’s remnants of magic, but I can’t see anything, no blood, nothing broken. Have to wait until he wakes up.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, nodding. “Should I… go?”

“Might be best.” Geralt grimaces. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Jaskier replies easily, although his heart is still sinking. “Do let me know if anything changes?”

Geralt nods sharply, settling into a chair at the bedside, gaze still trained on Eskel lying prone. Jaskier takes his leave, mind whirling the entire way back up to his chambers. He has so many questions, and absolutely no answers, and besides that, he’s _still_ reeling from that kiss.

He barely sleeps a wink that night, and in the morning, he’s slow to get up and ready for the day, although a brisk knock has him alert in a second. “Yes?” he calls, drying his face from where he was washing it and throwing the towel over his shoulder.

It’s Eskel standing in the doorway, looking a bit better than last night, and he gives a little wave when Jaskier sees him. “Hi.”

“Eskel!” Jaskier cries, throwing propriety to the wind and pulling him into a deep hug. He’s missed him these long months when he was in Temeria, the first friendly face he ever saw at Kaer Morhen. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Whoa, hey,” Eskel laughs, but hugs him back, although there’s none of that regular witcher strength present in it. Jaskier doesn’t want to read too much into it, but…

Eskel releases him and makes his way over to the armchair—a bit clumsily, if Jaskier’s being honest. He has none of the usual witcher grace to his movements.

“First things first, I hear that things have changed around here since I’ve been gone. Since when do you not hate Geralt?”

Jaskier blushes, which Eskel immediately notices, and chuckles. “I’m guessing it’s a bit more than ‘not hate’, then, judging by the way you two still smell of each other.”

“It isn’t like that,” Jaskier protests, but it’s weak at best. “Anyway, that’s not nearly as important right now. How’s it going in Temeria? And why did Triss drop you off like a hot potato last night?”

Eskel sighs. “Not as well as it should be, that’s for damn sure. Fuckers are like cockroaches, just won’t stay dead. No offense,” he adds. “They must have a mage—might be the same one who messed around in your head. They’re strong enough, that’s for sure.”

Jaskier frowns. It certainly sounds like Stregobor—he’s plenty damn powerful, as Jaskier knows well.

“They had something, some kind of bomb that went off right in my face. Might have been dimeritium—knocked me right out, and I still don’t feel right.”

“But you're okay? No injuries?” Jaskier double-checks.

“No injuries,” Eskel confirms. “Too bad, though. Might have gotten out of chores and training, otherwise,” he says, grinning.

Jaskier laughs. “I’m really glad you’re back,” he admits. “I’ve been bored out of my mind. I’ve gone on a few hunts, but…”

“Ah, well, we can fix that, easy. In fact, Geralt and I already talked about this a bit. We need to work out the details, but I think you’ll like it,” he says, smiling.

Jaskier learns what the plan is at dinner that night. Since Jaskier has been so anxious to put his skills to use—and hunting can only burn off so much energy—Geralt has decided on a test, of sorts. It’s not for himself—he trusts Jaskier, now, as much as one can, really. It’s for the other witchers of the keep, who don’t have the same rapport with Jaskier, and who are still wary of having a former Redanian among them.

Jaskier and Eskel will go on a reconnaissance mission, to one of the outposts on the border of Kaedwen. There’s been reports of possible incursions, perhaps aided by Redanian troops, and they’re to figure out if there’s any credence to the rumors.

It’s exactly the kind of chance that Jaskier’s been wanting—the chance to prove himself, to cement Geralt’s trust in him, to exercise his atrophying skills. Eskel will be there to take point—and to restrain Jaskier, if it comes to it, although they both know it won’t be necessary.

The night before they leave, Jaskier is full of pre-mission jitters like he hasn’t been since he was eighteen. He’s in his room, alternating between pacing and endlessly sharpening a dagger he was given. He’s debating trying to go to bed; he knows he won’t sleep very well, as wound up as he is but it might be worth it.

A knock at the door interrupts his pacing, and he almost flings himself upon it in his haste for a distraction. “Jaskier,” Geralt greets him, upon opening the door. “I… have something. For you.”

“Oh?” Jaskier steps aside to let Geralt in. He’s carrying a good-sized parcel, but Jaskier has no idea what it might be. Geralt sets his burden down on the bed, gesturing to Jaskier, who steps forward and unwraps it with slightly shaky hands.

It’s a set of armor, newly made. Leather dyed a deep blue, studded with silver pauldrons, makes up the chest piece and vambraces. Finishing off the set is a pair of boots that come up high on his shins, made of solid black leather, with good soles that will make them both silent and good for climbing. It’s absolutely stunning, the quality of the craftsmanship and the elegance of the whole set.

“Geralt, I—I don’t even know what to say. Wow.”

“You like it?” Geralt asks, uncertainty evident in his voice. “If you don’t, it’s okay, really. I probably should have asked—”

“I _love it,”_ Jaskier gushes, pulling Geralt into a tight hug. Geralt tenses, then relaxes into it, placing a light kiss on the top of his head. “Help me put it on?”

Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed while Geralt kneels in front of him—and the image _does something_ to his brain, something that is entirely inappropriate to the situation, but his libido doesn’t seem to care. One by one, Geralt pulls the boots onto Jaskier’s feet, deft fingers checking the fit and adjusting the small buckles as needed, until it feels like he could be wearing socks, for how well they fit.

“Good?” Geralt asks.

“Perfect.” Next is the chest piece, which laces up from behind. Jaskier has to fight to keep his breathing even as Geralt eases him into it, feeling like a maiden getting a corset fitted from how constricting it feels. It’s not the fit of the armor; rather, it’s the fact that Geralt seems to have the ability to take Jaskier’s breath away at any given moment. How inconvenient—how romantic, like something out of his stories.

“Too tight?” Geralt checks, and wow, he is _right_ there, warm breath gusting over the back of Jaskier’s neck. He fights back a shudder.

“Nope! Just fine,” he squeaks out, cheeks reddening.

Geralt hums, and finishes tying up the chest piece. Then he grabs the vambraces off the bed, and oh, gods, Jaskier might _die_ from seeing how Geralt’s hands compare to his own when he helps pull them on.

Jaskier’s always had slightly smaller-than-average hands—a benefit for a spy, who often needs dexterity and precision rather than brute strength. But he never thought of them as particularly small, except for when compared to Geralt’s, which are just massive. They look like they could span Jaskier’s entire waist. He could probably hold both wrists in one grip, a thought which has Jaskier decidedly hot under the collar.

His fingers are strong and precise in their movements, and is Jaskier seriously getting this worked up over some fucking _hands?_ Is he a swooning maiden out of a steamy novel?

Apparently, because by the time everything is in place, Jaskier has to sit down on the bed just to regain some brain cells. He can’t even _look_ at Geralt right now.

“Everything fits?” Geralt asks, breaking him out of his lust-fuelled haze.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, not trusting his voice right now. He's sure that if he speaks, he’s either going to embarrass himself or beg Geralt to take him to bed or both, and regardless, he wouldn’t be leaving the keep come morning.

So he keeps his mouth shut, pulling Geralt into a fierce hug instead. He knows the trust a gift like this requires, and the time and care put into making it. Geralt hugs him back, smiling against the top of his hair—Jaskier can feel it.

“Good,” Geralt murmurs, and then regretfully pulls away. Although that’s probably a good thing—Jaskier self-restraint is only hanging on by a thread. “I wish you luck, tomorrow.” And with that, he takes his leave. Jaskier allows himself ten seconds to stare wistfully after him.

Fuck, he is _so_ far gone, isn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I get a HELL YEAH for a first kiss?
> 
> also, guys, there is a _serious_ lack of armor porn in this fandom, guys. it's always "tear the armor off quick so we can bone", when really, isn't it MUCH more exciting to have that delicious tension of lacing it up/tightening buckles? it's about the slow, careful intimacy...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry if you got multiple notifications, i had to reupload this chapter)
> 
> i've added a very tentative chapter count! we're definitely getting closer to the climax/end of the story :D

Eskel wakes him with a knock at his door just before dawn, although Jaskier wasn’t sleeping that deeply, anyway. He slips out of bed and pulls on his new armor, meeting Eskel at the door. Eskel hands him an apple, which Jaskier munches on thankfully.

“Sleep well?” Eskel asks, as they exit the keep and start their trek down the mountain.

Jaskier shrugs. “Some.” He doesn’t mention the reason for his restlessness, and though Eskel looks like he wants to ask, he doesn’t, which Jaskier is grateful for.

As they walk, the sky gradually growing lighter, he’s glad that he’s been allowed to walk around so much lately. Without the practice, he would be struggling right now. As it is, it’s more of a pleasant hike than anything, not even enough to work up a sweat.

It is odd, Jaskier muses, that Eskel isn’t driving their pace too hard. He certainly seemed to take joy in forcing him up and down all those steps, before, and Jaskier would have assumed that the same would be true for this trip.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel nods.

“What happened? In Temeria?”

“What, you mean the warfront? Not much, recently. It’s been a stalemate for weeks. We reclaimed almost to the border, and then couldn’t break through.”

While that is helpful, it’s not what Jaskier was angling for. “No, I mean—are you alright?” he asks carefully.

Eskel huffs a laugh. “You noticed, then.”

“Of course I noticed! Geralt had to carry you, unconscious, to his room. You haven’t been the same—you’re slower, and you seem… tired,” Jaskier observes. It’s the only way to describe the way Eskel moves—it’s downright _human._ Jaskier grew used to the witchers, it seems, and the difference is all too stark.

“Don’t worry. I’m still leagues better than any human—no offense,” he reassures. “But you’re right, I’m not up to par yet. One of the mages over there threw something, some kind of bomb, and I took the brunt of the blast. Triss thinks it was laced with dimeritium, because it threw off her senses, too.”

“I didn’t know witchers were sensitive to dimeritium.”

Eskel nods. “Not as much as mages, thank the gods. But enough.”

Jaskier falls quiet then, pensive. He must look like he’s a million miles away, because Eskel nudges him.

“I told you, I’m still better than any human. You don’t have to worry, with me.”

“Oh, no, I know,” he assures Eskel. “I would never dare doubt your strength and skills, o master witcher.”

Eskel chuckles. “But?”

“But nothing, I suppose. If you say you’re fine, I believe you. Let’s get this mission over with, yeah?” he says, pasting on a smile. He doesn’t know if it convinces Eskel, but he lets it slide, and they continue their journey in companionable silence.

It takes two days to reach their target, a small village at the foot of the mountains that has had reports of possible seditious activity going on. Jaskier has been enjoying the excursion, the chance to see the open road again, but he can’t deny that his heart aches as if missing something.

Or someone.

He thinks of Geralt, of Ciri, of the various other witchers he’s slowly made friends with as winter dragged on. He misses them all, even after only a few days away, but his heart definitely yearns for Geralt the most.

It’s funny—he’s only heard of this sort of longing pull from people talking about their soulmates. He hasn’t spared a second thought to his soulmate since he last decided to give up on them. Instead, it’s Geralt who occupies his mind.

He hopes to do him proud with this mission. Geralt has already said he trusts Jaskier, of course, but the entire point of this excursion is to prove it to everyone else in the keep, as well—and to prove it to himself.

Speaking of, Jaskier refocuses on the scene before him: the village is deceptively quiet, the only movement that of smoke drifting lazily upwards into a robin’s-egg sky. He half-expects to see the vibrant red of Redanian uniforms flashing through the streets, but of course, they would never be so overt. Jaskier knows his former country, the way the RSS operates.

Where would a spy hide? The obvious answer is in plain sight—going unnoticed is RSS agents’ specialty. There’s no market crowd to slip into today, though—in fact, it’s silent as the grave, even to Eskel’s enhanced-yet-dulled hearing, judging by the way he’s frowning.

“What do you think?” Jaskier murmurs from where they’re crouching at the very edge of the forest.

“I think something is wrong,” Eskel replies grimly. “I know this village well—we used to restock before wintering in Kaer Morhen, back when we still walked the Path. I’ve never seen it so dead.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters. “Do you think they’re right? Sedition?” _Or something worse?_

“No telling. We’ll have to get closer to find anything worthwhile, though. Nothing worth doing sitting around here in the dirt.” He pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his hands.

“Hey, I’ll have you know, a large part of the spy business is sitting around in the dirt,” Jaskier mock-protests, even as he too stands.

Together, they creep towards the village, but nobody sees them, nobody comes rushing out of their homes to either greet or attack them.

It’s unnerving—Jaskier has grown unused to going unseen. The eerie silence continues as they reach the outer edge of the village.

Jaskier turns to Eskel and opens his mouth to whisper something—a comment, a question, who knows—but is interrupted by a sudden, blinding flash of light directly behind them.

He hears Eskel shout, and brings an arm up to cover his eyes, futilely. All he can do is stagger backwards, eyes clenched shut and streaming tears, rubbing frantically at them as if that will clear his vision. He bumps into something sturdy—it’s Eskel, whose arms come out automatically to steady him, even as he too curses and rubs at his eyes.

The explosion comes out of nowhere, blasting them both off their feet. Jaskier falls to the cobblestones in a heap, disoriented, but unharmed. Eskel, though, gives a low moan.

“Eskel,” Jaskier gasps out, thrusting out an arm blindly. He finds boots, pulls himself closer, pats along the rest of his body in lieu of seeing. His searching hands don’t feel any immediate wounds, no blood, no bones jutting out of place.

But Eskel is still on the ground, rolling in place, making more of those pained moans. Fuck. Was it one of those dimeritium bombs?

This isn’t good. Eskel is down for the count, and he himself is still blinded. He can’t fight like this, even if he got a chance to encounter their attackers. The best he could do is slashing out blindly with his daggers, which he won’t risk with Eskel right next to him.

It doesn’t matter, because there are suddenly strong hands gripping his wrists, yanking them behind him and quickly lashing rope around them. He struggles, kicks, even bites, but to no avail.

“Grab the mutant,” someone yells. “Watch for the teeth.”

 _No! Eskel, get up!_ he pleads internally. This is all going so very, very wrong.

But Eskel doesn’t get up, because Jaskier hears heavy shackles being clamped around his wrists. There’s laughter, low and mean, and his mind is racing. With one last shred of hope, he clutches desperately at his soulmark, shoving his panic through the bond. He has no idea if he's still in range, but gods, he hopes he is, because he can’t see a way out of this.

“Bring them,” the same person orders, and it’s the last thing Jaskier hears before an insidious voice is working its way inside his head, whispering _sleep._

\--

Jaskier jolts awake, muscles tensed for a fight, but he doesn’t get very far—he opens his eyes (thankfully no longer blinded) and finds himself bound wrists, ankles, and chest to a chair. His weapons and armor are nowhere in sight—he’s been stripped down to only pants and a chemise. “Fuck,” he hisses, struggling futilely.

He’s in a circular room, he realizes, the walls a dark stone and the ceiling sloping to a point at the top. Oh, _fuck._ This is bad. This is so, so bad. He knows exactly where he is, he realizes with a sinking heart. This is Stregobor’s tower, where he conducts all of his magical experiments.

Fuck. Jaskier is hyperventilating, he knows, but can’t calm himself down. This mission was supposed to be a way to prove himself, to prove that he wouldn’t go running back to Redania the first chance he got—and now he’s ended up here anyway, completely unwillingly, but nobody else will believe that, of course. The irony isn’t lost on him.

With his world crashing down on him, he almost misses it when he hears the heavy iron door in front of him unlock. And then in walks Stregobor, as imperial and self-important as ever.

“What are you _doing?”_ Jaskier spits, tugging once again at his bonds. They don’t budge. “What the fuck is this?”

“You always asked so many questions, Julian,” Stregobor says, shaking his head. “Nosy, but becoming of a spy, I suppose.”

Jaskier cringes at the use of his real name. There’s a reason he’d rather go by Jaskier. “Enough with the bullshit. What are we doing here? Because if I’m remembering correctly, you sent me to my death quite happily.”

“But you survived, didn’t you? Quite unfortunate, really, because it makes this—” he gestures with his staff, “—much more complicated. It would have been much easier if you’d just died like you were supposed to.”

Jaskier already suspected as much, but it still hurts to hear that Stregobor—the man who had taken him under his wing as a young teenager, who had trained him and pushed him to be more—was responsible for the sense-blind potion wearing off, had meant for him to either die at the hands of the witchers or by his own hand.

“Bully for you, then,” he sneers. “The witchers were too kind, too _noble,_ to let me die.” He doesn’t mention that at first, he had only been kept alive out of a need for interrogation. They’ve long since proved their goodness to Jaskier, and he’s grateful they ended up saving his life.

Stregobor scoffs. “Noble? They’re mutants, Julian. Only capable of bloodshed and cruelty.”

He could spend all day arguing over this with Stregobor, but frankly, his patience is already wearing thin. “Why don’t you just kill me, then? If you want me dead so badly?”

“I have plans for you, Julian, and that pet witcher of yours. But that’s enough questions,” Stregobor says, propping his staff against the wall and walking closer to the chair where Jaskier is tied up. He resists the urge to bite. “Show me everything,” he commands, and places his hands on Jaskier’s temples.

It’s like being struck by lightning—Jaskier can’t even yank his head away, the shock is so strong. He’s instantly thrust into a memory—

 _He’s perched above the great hall, crossbow in hand, aiming at Geralt._ No, don’t shoot, I love him, _he thinks desperately, trying to yank himself out of it, but he’s powerless to help it as he feels his finger on the trigger._

_Then he’s scrambling for the poison vial, downing it one, even as he screams for himself to stop. The world goes dark—he hears snatches of conversation, Lambert, Yennefer—_

He gasps as he surfaces, throwing himself forward against his bonds, gagging and coughing and sucking in air. Stregobor lifts his hands away, and Jaskier is pathetically grateful.

“So, Geralt, then. Oh, Julian,” Stregobor says, shaking his head in disapproval. “In love with a beast? Why did I ever waste my time on you? You could have been magnificent.”

Jaskier finally catches his breath and glares up at Stregobor. “Stay out of my head,” he snarls. This is exactly what the witchers had feared, not so long ago—Jaskier betraying them all, giving up all of Kaer Morhen’s secrets. And the worst of them all—now Stregobor knows, knows that he cares deeply about Geralt, and that Geralt feels the same. Now Jaskier can be used—drained of information until he’s dry, then held hostage or killed at best.

He doesn’t want to die, not like he did—but if it protects Geralt, and the witchers, and little Ciri? (Oh, gods, he _can’t_ let Stregobor find out about her.) He would do anything to protect them.

Stregobor doesn’t even give him the dignity of answering—he simply steps forward again and plunges them both into a memory.

_He’s in the dungeons, rubbing absentmindedly at his soulmark, worrying over his fate. Except he’s not worried, he knows the witchers would never hurt him—but the Jaskier of old doesn’t._

Worry-concern-help _comes through the soulbond, and gods, Jaskier almost misses it. He loves Geralt, he does, but it was so nice for the brief period of time when they got along. His soul aches._

This time, when Stregobor brings him out of it, Jaskier pitches forward and empties his stomach onto the floor. _Gods._

“A soulmate, too? Oh, Julian, this is just sad,” Stregobor mocks.

“Shut the hell up,” Jaskier hisses. “Just stay out! You have no right!”

At that moment, just as Stregobor frowns and stalks forward again, there’s a knock at the door. Stregobor’s scowl deepens, but he stalks over to open it anyway. There’s a brief conversation that Jaskier can’t hear anything of besides muttering, and then the other conversant departs.

Stregobor grabs his staff from where he left it and glares haughtily at Jaskier. “Enjoy this time, Julian, because when I get back, we’ll be diving back in. And if I have to rip your mind apart to get what I want, I will,” he threatens, and then leaves Jaskier alone with that delightful warning hanging over him.

Jaskier immediately starts tugging at the ropes again, heedless of the way they cut into his wrists and ankles. He strains his ears as he struggles, listening for any sign of Stregobor coming back. Fuck, if only he had his dagger—

With a sickening _pop,_ his right thumb dislocates. He bites back a yelp, squinting his eyes shut and breathing through the initial pain. Once it dulls a bit, he carefully yanks his hand out of the ropes, even though the way the bones grind together makes him want to vomit again.

One hand free, he picks at the knots tying up his other hand, and then it’s easy from there to untie the rest of the ropes. Freed, he stands up out of the chair and immediately casts about the room for something to use as a weapon.

There’s frustratingly little—there’s a bookcase with some heavy books that could probably pack a punch if thrown, but then he’d be weaponless. There’s a table with alchemy equipment—no potions or bombs, though. Not even a knife for chopping up ingredients.

Jaskier turns to the chair, considering. Is it worth the noise to break it for a crude club?

Yes. Yes, it is. Jaskier throws one last glance to the door before he picks up the chair and smashes it, hard, against the floor. It cracks into pieces, and he pulls a leg free of the wreck. Good. The next obvious step is getting out of this room—but the only way in and out is through that heavy iron door, because Stregobor knows Jaskier’s skills all too well, knows how easily he can slip away from sticky situations.

He thinks briefly of trying to pick the lock—but Jaskier knows Stregobor right back, knows that there’s likely some magical trap or alarm on it that will activate the moment he tries. And it’s not as if he has anything to use as a pick. So immediate escape is out.

His best option right now is to prepare for when Stregobor comes back. That’s the only way he’s getting out of this room. He looks at the door, considers sight lines and angles, and then jumps up onto the table, hoisting himself into the rafters from there. He shuffles until he’s in position above the door, ready to drop down the moment it opens.

He settles in to wait, and doesn’t even have to wait long. Footsteps approach only a few minutes later. Two pairs—one set accompanied by the rhythmic thudding of a staff, and the other heavy yet quick, measured in the way of those who fight often.

Fuck. It’s lucky he’s been training with the witchers so much—he wouldn’t have a chance against two opponents if he were out of shape. As it is, he’ll already be at a disadvantage because of his thumb.

But he doesn’t have any longer to plan, because then the door opens beneath him, and he swings himself down on top of the person who enters.

It isn’t Stregobor. The person under him shouts, bringing up his hands to throw Jaskier off, and he tumbles to the floor. Jaskier is quick to right himself, ready to launch himself again, but freezes in place when he sees that it’s _Eskel,_ Stregobor following close behind, staff raised in preparation.

But why isn’t Eskel chained? Or restrained, or fighting, or literally anything besides standing there blankly but defensively? Something is _deeply_ wrong here.

“Enough, Julian!” Stregobor snaps, and then Jaskier is frozen not only by shock, but by magic as well. He can’t even lift a finger as Eskel advances on him, disarming him and then pulling his arms behind him in a rough, unbreakable hold. It’s not all like him.

Stregobor’s spell lifts, and Jaskier instantly flies into motion. He struggles to free himself, and even though he’s desperate he’s still reluctant to hurt Eskel. Eskel, by contrast, is a stone wall behind him, utterly uncompromising in his restraint of Jaskier.

“What did you do to him? Let him go!” Jaskier spits at Stregobor.

“I put a leash on him, like all beasts deserve,” Stregobor says coldly. “And unless you calm down and stop acting like a wild animal yourself, I’ll leash you too.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Jaskier hisses. It’s not just bravado—although he knows that it always pisses Stregobor off nicely. But he knows, from Stregobor’s own mental defense lessons so long ago, that the more people a mage tries to take on at once, the more tenuous their control is. It’s a risk. But it’s the only move he has left—because he _will not_ go down without a fight.

Stregobor narrows his eyes. “Insolent shit.” With a wave of his hand, Eskel lets go, stepping back. Jaskier stumbles, but is back on his feet quickly. He gathers himself to spring, and then—

He freezes. It’s not the same spell as before—his body doesn’t even want to move, can’t even struggle. All of his tensed muscles relax, and he falls into the same easy position that Eskel is standing in. But it’s not him doing so.

Stregobor called him on his bluff. _Fuck._ Jaskier thought that his hold would be weak—that he would be distracted by leashing both him and Eskel, that Jaskier could use it against him and break the control over both of them.

He scrabbles around in his mind, because that’s all he can do—every movement, every twitch and every inhale, belongs to Stregobor. _No, no, no! Let us go! Eskel!_ Jaskier shouts in his mind, praying that Eskel can hear him.

 _Jaskier? He got you too?_ comes a voice in his mind. It’s not his own, nor is it Stregobor’s. _Fuck! I thought, that with your mental defenses, you might be able to hold him off._

_Eskel! I’m sorry, I thought I could overpower him, I’m so sorry for dragging you into this—_

_It’s alright, Jaskier. Just calm down. You did help, a bit. I wasn’t even conscious before._

Oh, fuck. Has Jaskier just made it that much worse? Who knows what horrors Stregobor will force them both to commit—surely it would have been kinder to stay unaware of his actions.

 _I’m so sorry,_ he repeats. _I swear I didn’t betray you, I would never, I know it looks bad but I promise, I don’t want to be here—_

 _Jaskier!_ Eskel interrupts, firmly but not unkindly. _Panicking won’t help anyone. Listen to me, focus on me,_ he soothes, and Jaskier slowly comes out of the panicked spiral he was sinking into. _Good. Now, focus. We need a plan._

 _You’re right. Sorry,_ Jaskier responds, regaining his wits. _Do you know what he’s planning?_

 _Some,_ Eskel answers grimly. _I know that he’s been planning this from the beginning, even before I came back from Temeria. Probably before you even came to Kaer Morhen._

Jaskier turns it over in his mind as Stregobor has them both follow him out of the tower and into the large courtyard outside. He’s stunned to see that they’re in the castle in Tretogor, and not the RSS headquarters like Jaskier thought—Stregobor must have moved into the court to advise Radovid on the war effort.

Stregobor stations them side by side in the middle of the courtyard, while he himself goes to stand on the castle steps. Red and white-livered soldiers flood the courtyard, weapons at the ready, and take up defensive positions—mainly between the gates and where Eskel and Jaskier stand, but some flood onto the walls as well, crossbows at the ready.

Jaskier gets the sense of a chessboard being set up—all the pieces are coming into play, here and now. The only thing missing is an opponent—and Jaskier gets the feeling that they’re about to arrive.

And then out comes King Radovid himself, dressed for war, who comes to stand by Stregobor. They talk briefly, and Jaskier can’t hear what they say, but Stregobor seems displeased with whatever it is Radovid says. Everything falls silent, then, except for the clanking of plate armor whenever a nervous soldier shifts. Everyone is just… waiting.

_Eskel, I have an idea,_ Jaskier calls. _Whatever it is he’s waiting for, if we can catch him when he’s distracted enough, we can try and throw him off together. Our combined efforts might be more effective, especially if it’s unexpected._

 _You think it will work?_ Eskel says dubiously. _You have the strongest mind I’ve ever seen and he can still hold both of us._

 _We have to try,_ Jaskier says desperately. _I refuse to be a pawn of Redania anymore._

They fall into silence then, waiting for whatever it is the Redanians are waiting for. Jaskier doesn’t dare to hope it’s a rescue—if anything, it will be a neutralization of a compromised asset. Eskel, of course, will be given more leeway, but not him. Not after his bloody history.

Then he hears it—the steady march of an army on the move, getting closer. And closer. The forces of Kaer Morhen on the move.

 _Eskel?_ Jaskier asks tremulously. _When they get here—if you make it out, can you at least ask Geralt to make it quick?_

_What are you talking about? We’re both getting out of here, Jaskier, I promise._

An earth-shattering force hits the main gates, then, interrupting Jaskier’s thoughts. _BOOM._ And again, lighting the sky up purple. It’s Yennefer’s magic, it must be.

“Arms at the ready!” shouts Radovid, and the Redanian army moves as one. Stregobor holds his staff up, creating a shimmering white barrier that expands outwards until it encompasses the entire courtyard. If Jaskier could hold his breath, he would. As it is, he can only stand there, deceptively calm appearance masking the turmoil inside.

 _Jaskier?_ Eskel says, catching his attention. _He’s distracted with that shield, I bet. On three, we throw him off, alright? One… two… THREE!_

Jaskier throws everything he has into bucking Stregobor’s mental bond with him. For a split second, it works—Jaskier’s knees give out as control rushes back to him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Eskel whirling around.

They might win this. He scrambles to his feet and launches himself after Eskel, eager to throttle Stregobor.

And then he hears the gates explode behind him, the shockwave sending him sprawling to the stone. He catches himself on scraped hands and knees, jarring his broken thumb—and the pain, though relatively minor, is just enough to distract him.

Stregobor’s mind sinks its claws into his own in an instant, leaving no room for error. Jaskier struggles fiercely, but the mage is quick to bind him completely and fully, even moreso than before. He can barely even think—certainly can’t put sentences together to try and contact Eskel.

 _No. No, no, no._ It’s over. Jaskier has failed, and his mind is Stregobor’s now. As his vision narrows to a pinprick, he thinks of Eskel, of Yennefer, of _Geralt._

He hopes they put him down before he can do too much damage, before he can betray them more than he already has.

He hopes they make it quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the absolute abuse of italics :(


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fucking fought to get this out before the end of the year, y'all. that'll teach me to end on such a horrible cliffhanger, lol. anyways, sorry! between finals and the holidays and other writing obligations (that i'm now regretting signing up for XD) this chapter just kept getting put off, and then on top of that, i had an idea that will extend this fic by at least another chapter. so, enjoy, i guess?

Stregobor’s control is absolute. Jaskier can hardly even string together a thought of his own, but it’s enough to realize with mounting horror that his body is gathering itself up, pushing to its feet, and marching towards the gates, which are still shuddering with the force of Yen’s magical attacks.

He can’t see Eskel, either, has no way of knowing whether or not he escaped Stregobor’s control. His blood is pounding too loudly in his ears, and he can’t hear anything besides it. Can’t hear any possible sounds of a fight behind him.

He can hope and pray all he wants, but he can’t rely on Eskel, can’t rely on the faint chance that he can take down Stregobor. Jaskier’s mind scrambles for any possible options, coming up with nothing, as his body continues its relentless march towards the front lines.

He wants to be sick. But he can’t even do that, now, can he, not without Stregobor’s permission. He can’t do anything except panic inside his own head, can only watch as the gates fall under the ruthless assault. He breathes in the dust as it settles to reveal his only hope of salvation, his lover and to-be-murderer all at once, looking terrifying and glorious. He’s followed by what must be every single witcher on the Continent—Jaskier can pick out Mikolaj, and Bennet, and Schrödinger among the rest—and several mages, Yennefer and Triss at the forefront. Tears well in his eyes, and he doesn’t know if they’re from relief or despair.

Geralt looks indecipherably at him, and gods, the suspense is killing Jaskier. Whatever it is Geralt sees in Jaskier’s terrified eyes, he turns to Yen, standing at his side with purple fire sparking at her fingertips and rage in her eyes. He mutters something, too quiet to hear, and then turns back to face the courtyard.

When he speaks, it’s more than loud enough to hear past the pounding in his ears, his voice magically enhanced to reach the entire courtyard. “Surrender now, Radovid. We’ve already retaken Temeria, but nobody else has to die today.” He says it with such authority, such power behind his words, Jaskier can see why so many nations fell to the Warlord of the North.

But it doesn’t look like any of the Redanians are convinced, if the stony silence that greets Geralt’s words is anything to go by. There’s quiet for half a moment, the soldiers shifting uneasily in their armor, and then Jaskier’s limbs are jerked forwards again.

He stumbles over to Geralt, openly crying now; the kindest end he can hope for is at Geralt’s hands, before Stregobor can puppet him into betraying the witchers any more than he already has.

But then his mouth is opening, words spilling out as he staggers towards Geralt: “Geralt, please, thank the gods, they’ve got Eskel—please, kill them and get me away from here—”

They aren’t his words, though they do ring of truth. Geralt’s face softens at his obvious distress, though he keeps his sword unsheathed. He holds out a hand to catch Jaskier as he approaches, though everything in Jaskier screams for him not to. How can he not sense something is terribly, terribly wrong? Aren’t witchers supposed to sense these kinds of things?

But his body shambles closer, acting injured and scared—even though he is technically both those things—and Geralt does nothing to stop him. Doesn’t stop him from collapsing against his swordless side—but it’s the side where he keeps his hunting knife in its sheath, and Jaskier’s nimble fingers deftly pluck it out, even as his head buries itself in Geralt’s shoulder, broken hand coming up to clutch painfully at Geralt’s armor.

His breaths shudder in and out of him, Geralt’s unarmed hand resting lightly in between his shoulder blades, but nothing about it is comforting. It’s a complete perversion of the comfort he should be receiving, just a cover for his treachery as a shaking hand brings the knife up and slips it cleanly, effortlessly between Geralt’s ribs.

Inside his mind, Jaskier is keening, screaming, crying, but on the surface, the crocodile tears have dried up and his body is smiling wickedly, mouth curving into a grin sharper than the bloody knife he holds. He pushes Geralt away now that Stregobor is done with him, sending him staggering back, clutching at the wound in his side, looking up at Jaskier with utter betrayal written on his face.

“Fool of a witcher,” Jaskier spits. “Trusting a spy? I thought you were meant to be smart,” he laughs, twirling the blade expertly. “Falling for a lie is one thing, but falling for a liar? Oh, darling, that’s just so hopelessly sad,” he mocks.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out, eyebrows still knit in confusion, but a burning anger beginning to kindle in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, come on. Surely even a big, dumb witcher can figure it out,” Jaskier smirks.

“But you…” Geralt trails off, and then his face hardens. _No, no, it’s not me saying that, I swear,_ Jaskier screams, but no one can hear him. Geralt flashes his fingers in the sign for Axii, but it slides right off. Of all the times to be immune to Axii…

Jaskier’s smile grows impossibly sharper. “Cute. Now, why don’t you do the sensible thing and surrender? If you call off your dogs,” and he jerks his chin at the witchers and mages just waiting for the sign to attack, “then perhaps not all of you will die.”

“Never,” Geralt hisses, “and you _know_ that, Jaskier. This isn’t you,” he tries, shaking his head, and Jaskier’s heart soars. He knows. He knows! He knows that Jaskier wouldn’t betray him like this, knows that these aren’t his poisonous words, knows that Jaskier loves him—to death, literally.

But Stregobor is still in control of the situation. Heavy footsteps sound behind him, the sound of ringing steel accompanying them—Eskel walks up, holding his sword to Geralt’s neck, though his face is contorted in pain.

“Go, Geralt,” he chokes out, muscles twitching against Stregobor’s domination. He must be devoting all of his power towards controlling Jaskier, with only enough left over to puppet Eskel’s movements, and not much else. _Come on, Eskel,_ Jaskier urges. _Break free. Just break free, and kill me, and then kill Stregobor for me._

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you two.” Then, despite the steel at his throat, he looks Jaskier right in the eye. “Jaskier. You have to be the one to do it,” he says, a non sequitur if Jaskier has ever heard one, but he doesn’t have time to do anything about it before Geralt is lunging forward, grabbing his wrist—grabbing his _soulmark._

It’s like getting hit by lightning, a _crack-BOOM_ of the soul, like gripping pure Chaos in the palm of his hand. He can feel _everything—_ the inhale-stutter-exhale of Geralt’s every pained breath, the stinging pain radiating from the knife wound in his side, but even more than that, the all-consuming _love_ he has for Jaskier—even after his awful betrayal.

And he knows, with bone-deep certainty, that Geralt is his soulmate. It slides into place like a key sliding into the lock it was made for, an utter rightness that fills him with warmth and love and _Geralt._ And once he gets past the shock and joy and overflowing emotion that wells up inside him, he realizes something else—instead of Stregobor’s crushing presence around his mind, he can feel Geralt surrounding him like a shield of Quen against an attack, like a set of new armor against the bite of steel, like a blanket against the cold.

 _Jaskier,_ Geralt calls to him through their bond. And that one little word carries so much emotion with it, Jaskier wants to cry in response. _Jaskier, can you hear me?_

 _Yes! Yes, Geralt, I can hear you,_ Jaskier manages to gather his thoughts to respond. _What—how—_

 _I’m sorry. There’s no time,_ Geralt interrupts his stuttering thoughts. _You have to go._

 _I’m not leaving you._ Geralt is honestly, certifiably _insane_ if he thinks for even a moment that Jaskier will leave him. He has to clean up his own mess, and also, Geralt is his _soulmate, hello,_ he’s not going to abandon him.

 _Exasperation-love_ comes through. _I thought you would say that._ And so Geralt wrenches something, and Jaskier is catapulted back into awareness of his own body—and control of his own body, he realizes as he collapses to the ground with Geralt. He whips his head around to where Radovid and Stregobor were standing—only now Stregobor is on the ground as well, Radovid bent over him.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, and the courtyard explodes into motion. The soldiers rush at the witchers, and the witchers rush at the soldiers, and the mages start slinging spells left and right. Eskel helps Geralt to his feet, only for his face to go blank and his grip to turn crushing as Stregobor murderously puppets him once again. Jaskier scrambles away from the suddenly grappling witchers, narrowly avoiding getting stepped on.

Geralt gives back his best—but his best is sorely lacking, after fighting through Temeria and then being stabbed. It’s a good thing Eskel isn’t in top shape, either, because Geralt looks to be tiring rapidly.

Think, think, think. What can Jaskier do? He’ll be no help against Eskel. But against Stregobor—there’s a thought. He stands up, shaky but determined, snatching up a fallen soldier’s sword as he does, and runs over to end this once and for all.

He gets as far as the steps leading up to the castle before his path is blocked by a familiar, sneering face. Radovid stands, a fearsome king emblazoned in red and white and silver, sword aimed for Jaskier’s head.

His grip is entirely wrong, Jaskier notes with detachment, but he’s forced to bring his own sword up to block anyways as Radovid launches an impassioned attack. Block, parry, strike, dodge, Jaskier actually has to work to keep up, which is surprising in a noble. Clearly Radovid’s famed fanaticism extended to sword training as well.

“You _dog,”_ Radovid spits, after one particularly vicious flurry of attacks. Jaskier is growing more and more frustrated by the second; every moment he wastes fending off Radovid gives Stregobor more time to recover. “Mutant-loving scum, unworthy of your heritage!”

His _heritage?_ He was raised in an orphanage; what the fuck would he know about his heritage?

The thought distracts him enough that he’s forced to go on the defensive, Radovid gaining the upper hand. Jaskier is panting with exertion.

“I knew my father should have had you killed during the coup. You’ve been a thorn in our side for too long,” Radovid sneers, catching Jaskier’s sword with his own and locking it in a deadly embrace. Jaskier’s overtired muscles struggle to hold the position, the blades far too close to his throat for his liking.

Coup? Father? Something is falling into place, but it’s too big to think about. He’s more concerned with not dying and letting absolutely everyone down, thanks—and so in one last desperate move, he drops to his knees, rolls, and leaps, aiming for Radovid’s legs in an echo of the first time he sparred with a witcher.

Radovid goes down hard, his sword slicing along Jaskier’s arm as he falls, Jaskier on top of him. Jaskier bites back a scream of pain as it burns a line of pain, right across his soulmark. It’s absolutely agonizing, but there’s no room for hesitation, for error; he brings his stolen sword up and slits Radovid’s neck in one jagged motion.

Blood pours forth, soaking Jaskier in an instant; he’s not quick enough to scramble to his feet, and is subject to watch as Radovid chokes and sputters and dies beneath him. It’s not the closest he’s ever been to a dying man, but by the gods, this is the most scared he’s ever been.

At least it’s over quickly; Jaskier takes one moment to himself, just one, to collect himself and center his mind, and then heaves himself up, leaning on the hilt of the sword for balance, and stalks over to where Stregobor has just gathered himself up.

Fuck, this is going to be another difficult fight—even moreso in his injured state. He can only hope that Stregobor is too distracted controlling Eskel to use his full strength against Jaskier.

Stregobor doesn’t even bother with words before launching an attack. He throws a ball of lightning at Jaskier, who barely dodges it, rolling to the side just in time to hear it crackle past him in a searing ball of plasma.

The next attacks are similarly relentless, Stregobor pulling out every trick in the book. But his attention is divided controlling Eskel, and his reflexes are slower than they should be. It’s a close battle.

Jaskier darts in close after one particularly wayward spell, scoring a bloody line across Stregobor’s face. He yells in wordless pain, a strangled, angry thing, and brings his staff around to clock Jaskier across the face. For such an old man, he has surprising strength, and Jaskier stumbles back, starbursts of pain radiating from his jaw.

A blow for a blow, evenly matched—until.

Until he suddenly hears a commotion behind him, different from the sounds of the battle raging around them— “Eskel!” Geralt shouts, and there’s a heavy _thump_ like a heavy body hitting the ground. And Stregobor draws himself up, full attention now on Jaskier, and blasts him directly in the chest with a bolt of lightning, faster than Jaskier can even blink, let alone dodge.

And he’s screaming, and collapsing, and seizing, and his entire body is on _fire,_ and it keeps not ending, electricity arcing over his body.

He’s screaming so hard he tastes blood, actually, and half-mindedly prays it’s from a bitten tongue and not from tearing his throat raw.

Eventually, unbelievably, it stops, though his body still shakes with the aftershocks, jaw locked in a grimace, eyes squeezed shut.

Oh-so-slowly, the world comes into focus around him—almost completely silent, now, but for Stregobor’s footsteps approaching. Jaskier cracks his eyes open to see the entire courtyard frozen in a tableau, swords raised mid-strike, spells halted mid-flight. An incredible display of power.

Stregobor nudges him with his foot, pushing him roughly onto his back, and then pins him in place with the butt of his staff. Jaskier stares up into soulless grey eyes that hold only hatred and smugness at having pinned him like an insect.

Jaskier’s hand scrabbles uselessly for his sword, too far away to be of any use. It can’t end like this.

“You’ve proven to be _unbelievably_ hard to get rid of, Julian,” Stregobor muses. “And perhaps I’ve been going about this wrong.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when _you_ admit a fault,” Jaskier throws back. What, in the name of all the gods, is Stregobor playing at?

Stregobor digs his staff warningly into Jaskier’s chest. He wheezes.

“I could kill you right here, right now,” Stregobor hisses, and then eases up. Jaskier sucks in a breath. “But I’m ever magnanimous in my grace, and so I offer you another option. Radovid is dead—and the path to the throne is clear.”

Jaskier’s mind is spinning at a thousand miles an hour. Radovid dead—path to the throne— _heritage—_

“You are the rightful heir to the throne of Redania, Julian. You almost died as an infant in the coup—when I saw you crossing the bridge in Oxenfurt, completely unaware of your past, I knew that there was untapped potential within you.”

“How do you know all this?” Jaskier demands, although the answer is fairly obvious, if not to his liking. _Stregobor was part of the coup. Stregobor helped Vizimir kill my parents, and wanted to kill me._

“Because I know you, Julian. You have more power within you than you even know. Take the throne—take your rightful place as King of Redania—and I’ll let them live.” He waves a hand at the frozen scene in the courtyard.

“I’ve never wanted the throne,” Jaskier says. “And now you think I’ll agree to becoming a figurehead, shut up in a palace for the rest of my life, controlled by _you?”_ Because there are no doubts in his mind that Stregobor will immediately puppet him from the shadows, the same way he puppeted Radovid and likely Vizimir.

“Yes,” Stregobor replies simply. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill everyone you love before your eyes, and then force you into the throne anyway.” And Jaskier has no doubt that Stregobor has the power, the motive, and the absolute willingness to make good on his threat.

“At least this way you retain your dignity, Julian. And if you behave, I might even allow you some small freedoms. A treat for good behavior.” He smiles chillingly.

Jaskier swallows heavily and looks desperately at the figures frozen before him. Yennefer, hands glowing with purple fire, but outnumbered eight to one by soldiers surrounding her. Triss, run haggard after too many subsequent battles, looking as if she’s about to drop any second, but still fighting fiercely. Lambert, bleeding from a new wound across his face, teeth bared in a snarl at his opponents. Eskel, in a heap on the ground, with Geralt kneeling over him, face wrought with despair.

And he thinks of Ciri, bright, young, precious Ciri, her entire family buried or burned here in Tretogor—she, the only survivor of the witchers, all alone in the mountains of Kaedwen, a pale ghost wasting away in a too-big castle.

“Don’t,” Jaskier whispers, closing his eyes as a single tear runs down his cheek. “Don’t kill them, please.”

“Then you’ll behave?” Stregobor asks, voice cold as ice, and Jaskier nods, more silent tears running down his face. “Good. You’re not too stubborn to make the smart choice, after all.” Then he lets Jaskier up, even reaching a hand down to haul him to his feet, but keeping a tight grip on his shoulder as he turns towards the courtyard.

Then he waves his staff, and Jaskier sees Geralt slump in place, the only one unfrozen in a sea of paralyzed people. He shakes his head, gathering his wits, and then immediately leaps to his feet, sword in hand. “Ah ah ah,” Stregobor admonishes, waving a hand to freeze Geralt’s lower half in place. Geralt growls, stuck.

“Calm yourself, witcher. The boy is unharmed.” _Not really._

“Let him go, Stregobor. He’s done nothing,” Geralt calls across the distance.

“Whatever he has or hasn’t done doesn’t matter here, witcher. What matters is that he’s agreed to my proposal, and now I must ensure your compliance.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “What proposal?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, but Stregobor’s hand tightens on his shoulder, bruising. He closes it.

“He will take his rightful place as King of Redania, and you, witcher, will take your entire army and flee back to your mountains, forever.” Geralt growls, but Stregobor steamrolls right over him. “And if I see even a whisper of a witcher within twenty leagues of Redania, I’ll kill him.” He shakes Jaskier for good measure.

Geralt snarls, straining against Stregobor’s hold, but can’t break it. Stregobor holds his staff, glowing threateningly, to Jaskier’s throat, and Geralt reluctantly stops, his entire being slumping in defeat.

“Do you understand?” Stregobor asks, enunciating every word clearly, that icy steel gaze of his meeting Geralt’s molten gold one.

“You don’t have to do this,” Geralt tries, teeth gritted, one last effort.

“You’re right, I don’t have to. I could kill everyone in this courtyard with a flick of my wrist. I advise you to take my generosity seriously.”

 _Please, Geralt,_ he begs, hoping their soulbond will still allow him to communicate. _Just go._

All he gets back in return is deep, soul-wrenching _anguish,_ too deep for words.

_Please! Ciri. Think of Ciri._

And it’s that that does it. Geralt’s eyes close in pain and acceptance, knowing that as much as he wants to fight, to save Jaskier, to fix this somehow, he can’t leave Ciri.

“It’s alright, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, heedless of the way Stregobor tightens his grip in warning. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you will,” Stregobor assures them both, but it provides no comfort.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says brokenly, but nothing more. His face is a battlefield, war-torn and devastated by conflicting emotions.

“Go, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, and he does.

He sheathes his sword and turns around, Stregobor releasing his legs, defeat written in the slump of his shoulders. One by one, Stregobor releases the witchers, Geralt quickly pacifying them, though none of them look happy about it.

But nobody dares attack, not when their White Wolf has ordered them to stand down, not when his soulmate’s life is at risk.

And so Jaskier can only watch as Yen creates a portal back to Kaer Morhen, watch as the witchers retreat, watch as his last hope slides down the drain, bursting like a soap bubble facing reality when the portal shuts behind her.

It’s just Jaskier, Stregobor, and the Redanian soldiers, now, though Stregobor is quick to disperse them. He directs Jaskier back into the castle, who goes numbly. Does anything even matter, anymore?

Jaskier finds himself sitting in a chair in some backroom—not the throne, thank the gods, because he wouldn’t even know how to handle that right now. Stregobor doesn’t bother to restrain him, perhaps knowing that Jaskier won’t run or fight.

But then he turns to Jaskier, a potion vial in his hand that Jaskier didn’t even notice him getting. Jaskier looks up at him, a question in his eyes.

“To ensure your compliance. Memory potion. Wouldn’t it be kinder, anyway?” Stregobor says. “You can start over. No attachments, no witchers to worry about.”

He’s right, is the thing. Jaskier _would_ prefer to stop this aching thing inside of him, the yearning that calls for Geralt with every breath, the despair at knowing that his old-new life is forever out of reach.

Jaskier snatches the vial from Stregobor and drinks deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhh sorry please don't kill me 😓


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaaaa ummmm never let me sign up for any events ever again. i've FINALLY gotten this chapter out after signing up for two geraskier reverse bang fics and also the quickfic challenge, on top of running another event. all this to say, SORRY IT TOOK FOREVER HOPE YOU ENJOY! only one more chapter after this (hopefully), and i can't believe it

Another day at court, another mind-numbingly boring council session. Julian sighs and shifts on his throne, resting his chin on his hand while trying not to look too bored.

It doesn’t work. Stregobor, sensing his wandering mind, gets his attention. “Your Highness, if you please,” he says, in the long-suffering tone of someone who’s repeated themselves several times already. Julian straightens and sighs.

“Send the royal accountants out to tally the crop yield,” he orders, “and then can we _please_ move on?” They’ve been debating the possibilities of a crop shortage for _hours_ now, and Julian wants nothing more than to retire to his chambers and nurse the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

“At once, Your Highness,” Markus, the only council member he can tolerate, says. “Now, about the matter of the border skirmishes with Mahakam…”

Julian takes in a slow, deep breath, trying to remain strong. Beside him, Stregobor leans over and begins to whisper in his ear. “Perhaps His Highness would like to retire to his chambers for the afternoon?” he suggests.

It means that the council will go ahead and make decisions without him, but to be honest, he hardly cares, with how desperate he is. He nods and stands up, his guards shifting to attention immediately, but he waves them off. He can get back to his own rooms in one piece, for Melitele’s sake.

Stregobor settles back in his chair and interjects into the conversation, and Julian leaves him to it. He trusts Stregobor to act in his stead—what else is a trusted advisor for?

He shuffles back to his rooms, rubbing absentmindedly at his arm as he goes. It’s an old habit, one he’s picked up ever since the injury. It rarely pains him, but the scar is thick and ugly, its texture raised as he skims his fingers along it.

As he does, he feels the most curious sensation—a faint tingling, though the nerves are long dead, and a strange prickle at the back of his mind, different from the throbbing headache he has.

He probably just needs a long nap. It always seems to set him straight during these kinds of episodes, which have been far too frequent ever since his accident. He doesn’t remember much of life beforehand, though he knows that it was hardly different than it is now—still full of boring council meetings, interspersed with the occasional bright spot of audiences with his citizens, and Stregobor a steadfast companion at his side.

The only difference is the scar on his arm, and the constant headaches. Stregobor assures him that they’ll pass, that they’re only a holdover of his injury, but from what Julian can tell, they’ve only been increasing in frequency.

Ah well. The only cure is rest. He pushes open the door to his chambers, unclasping the heavy regal robe around his neck and tossing it haphazardly over the chaise to the side. His tired feet carry him to his plush bed, and he collapses onto it gratefully.

Only to bolt upright at the sound of something scraping along his window. He looks, but sees nothing there—was it perhaps the wind rattling the shutters? He squints, and goes to lie back down, only to see a dark, indistinct shape outside the frosted glass. He jumps to his feet, a call for the guards already on his lips, but he’s frozen in shock as the window bursts open and a hooded man tumbles through, landing near-silently on his carpet.

“Who—who are you?” Julian finally finds his words as the man—an assassin, a spy, a monster?—straightens.

The man pushes back his hood to reveal a shock of white hair, and as he raises his head, golden eyes snap to Julian’s face. Julian has an intense moment of déjà vu, which vanishes as quickly as it appears.

“Jaskier,” the man—no, the _witcher—_ rumbles. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time before they find me.”

“Before they find you—oh, dear gods, you’re here to kill me, aren’t you? Gods, what have I done to deserve this?” he asks, lips numb with horror. It’s here, it’s here, it’s finally here, the danger that Stregobor so vigilantly warns him about.

“What are you talking about? Jaskier, it’s me,” the witcher says, brow furrowed, and takes a half step forward. Julian flinches back, and he stops. “Jaskier,” he says carefully, “do you know who I am?”

“A witcher,” Julian answers. “Your eyes, they’re—why are you calling me that?”

“Because it’s your name,” the witcher explains, sounding sad.

“My name is Julian,” Julian contradicts him—though his heart inexplicably stings whenever he hears _Jaskier_ fall from the witcher’s lips, as if it’s something special.

“No, that’s a lie that that bastard Stregobor told you,” the witcher snarls. “Your name is Jaskier, and he’s been manipulating you for years. He kidnapped you a few months ago, and we only just managed to get to you.”

Julian shakes his head, eyes wide. “You’re crazy. Guards!” he yells, stumbling away from the witcher.

“Jaskier, wait!” The witcher darts forward and snags him by the arm—his hands are warm through the fabric of Julian’s doublet. “I’m not lying. Look at my soulmark,” he says, tugging up his own sleeve to reveal an intricate pattern, poppies and lavender entwined.

Julian stares at it. It looks _so familiar—_ but why? He’s sure he’s never seen that pattern before in his life. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The witcher frowns. “It matches yours.”

_Ah._ “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Julian says tremulously, as the witcher pushes up his sleeve to reveal the jagged scar where it should be. “I don’t have a soulmate. Whatever connection might have been there—it’s been broken.”

“No,” the witcher whispers, gone pale. “No, Jaskier, _no—”_

Whatever he says after that, it’s drowned out by the squadron of guards that bursts through the doors, swords raised. They detain the witcher with all of the skill and force they’re known for—although it isn’t much of a fight, because the witcher has gone still and unresponsive in the wake of seeing Julian’s scar.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” Mathilde, the captain of the guard, asks with her usual brusqueness. She runs her hands over him in a quick search, finding no injuries, and then sits him down on the bed to do a more thorough examination. He goes compliantly, submitting to her inspection.

When Julian looks over at the witcher, his guards have efficiently restrained him, binding his arms behind his back and divesting him of his dual swords.

“What shall we do with the intruder, Your Highness?” Mathilde asks, once she’s concluded her search and found nothing worth worrying over. One of the guards puts his sword to the witcher’s throat in preparation for a quick end, should Julian order it.

Despite the clear and present danger the witcher presents, though, Julian doesn’t want that. “To the dungeons with him,” he orders, impressed by how his voice comes out commanding and strong. “And I’ll be visiting shortly, so prepare for that.” He wants—no, _needs_ to know more. This witcher, strange as the things he says are, feels _right_ somehow, like he’s telling the truth, even if that’s impossible.

“Your Highness, are you sure?” Mathilde asks, in a rare show of disobedience. “Witchers are highly dangerous. You’re lucky we got here before anything happened. It would be safer to execute him.”

“Well said,” Stregobor says, as he strides through the door, his staff in hand. “And she’s right, Julian. I know this witcher well—Geralt of Rivia, the most dangerous of his kind. The Butcher of Blaviken, as they call him.”

Mathilde nods. “He’s right, Your Highness. My ma used to tell me tales.”

“See, Julian? We must rid ourselves of this pest now. Kill him,” Stregobor says, turning to the guard, but the guard hesitates, looking to his king for answers.

“No,” Julian snaps, glaring at Stregobor. He trusts Stregobor, he does, but on this, Julian won’t be budged. “He’ll stay in the dungeons until I decide what to do with him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stregobor scoffs, but Julian only glares. “On your own head be it,” Stregobor snaps, and storms from the room with a sweep of his robes. They don’t often fight—in fact, Julian can’t remember a time when they have before—and Stregobor is clearly used to getting his way. Well, he’ll just have to suck it up; Julian is king, after all, and what he says goes.

Julian nods at Mathilde, and she gestures to her men, who yank Geralt up and march him out of the room. Julian watches them go, suddenly exhausted in the wake of all the excitement.

Mathilde leaves two guards stationed in his room, extra cautious now, and locks the door behind her as she leaves. Julian crawls into bed, intent on a nap, though his headache has cleared somewhat. The watchful gazes of his guards tickle like insects’ legs on his skin as he tries to fall asleep. It’s a long time before he manages it.

When he wakes, it’s dark outside, and two out of three guards have fallen asleep. It must be the middle of the night, although he doubts he’ll be able to fall back asleep again. He levers himself up out of bed, slipping on his dressing gown.

The guard still awake makes as if to stand, but Julian waves him off. “Just a short walk, some fresh air,” he murmurs, and leaves his rooms unaccompanied.

He visits the kitchens first, grabs an apple to make up for his missed supper, and, without giving too much thought to it, grabs a second one and slips it into his pocket. He crunches through it as he walks down the hallways, polishing it off quickly. By the time he’s finished, he finds that his wandering feet have brought him to the dungeons. The guards on duty snap to attention at his approach.

“Your Highness,” they greet him. He nods a greeting and pushes past them, grateful that his position allows him to do so unquestioned. It isn’t often that he likes being king, but it does have its perks.

The dungeons are dark, the only light the flickering of one dying torch. The witcher—Geralt—sits kneeling in the middle of the first cell, eyes closed and hands resting on his knees. They flick open at Julian’s approach, cat-eyed pupils dilating in the low light.

“Geralt,” Julian greets him quietly, and the witcher’s eyes widen.

“Jaskier? Do you—do you remember me?” Geralt asks, leaning forward.

“No. _If_ there’s anything to remember.” Julian takes the apple out of his pocket and holds it through the bars. “Hungry?”

Geralt takes it, eyes never leaving Julian’s face, their fingertips brushing.

It’s like his mind explodes. Julian—no, _Jaskier—_ tries to stumble backwards, but feels Geralt’s hands close around his wrist, keeping him steady as thousands of memories flash through his mind.

Jaskier, fourteen, being recruited to the RSS on the way to enroll at Oxenfurt University. Jaskier, seventeen, making his first successful kill, throwing up in the gutter afterwards. Jaskier, twenty-three, now a seasoned professional, numb inside as he racks up mission after mission completed.

Jaskier, laying eyes upon Kaer Morhen for the first time. Geralt. Eskel. Yennefer. Lambert. Ciri. Triss. Their faces flash through his mind one by one, triggering a lightning strike of familiarity with each one.

Most of all, though, he remembers Geralt. Geralt on the other end of his crossbow. Geralt pinning him to the wall. Geralt smiling at him for the first time. Geralt pinning him into the dirt as they spar. Geralt in the low light of the fire during one of their late-night talks. Geralt kissing him for the first time. Geralt grabbing his soulmark in the courtyard.

_“Geralt,”_ Jaskier gasps, clutching tightly to Geralt’s hands. “Geralt, you—I—” It’s too much, the shock of his memories returning, coupled with the renewed connection of their soulbond. Jaskier can feel _everything._

“Are you alright?” Geralt demands, hands clenching as if he wants to pull Jaskier through the bars.

“I’m fine, I—Geralt, what are you _doing_ here?” Jaskier frets. “Stregobor said—”

“I couldn’t leave you here,” Geralt growls. “I don’t care what Stregobor said. We have a plan. Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Just the guards outside.”

Geralt nods sharply. “Stand over there,” he points, “and get ready to run.” Jaskier goes where Geralt directs, and watches as Geralt plants his legs, casting Aard at the cell door. It crumples like paper beneath the force, the crunch and squeal of twisting metal far too loud in the small space.

Jaskier gapes. “Why didn’t you do that before?”

“Needed to know you would be safe.”

“That was kind of hot, you know.”

“Not the time,” Geralt huffs, stepping over the mess of twisted metal and taking Jaskier’s hand. “Now let’s go. Yen is waiting with a portal if we can make it past the wards outside the gates.”

Jaskier grins, body alight with a rush of nerves and joy at being reunited. “Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, they burst through the door to the dungeons, taking the pair of guards by surprise. Jaskier punches one in the nose, sending him sprawling to the floor, while Geralt easily disarms the other and knocks him out.

They take a moment to detour and grab Geralt’s things, which were set aside when he was detained, and, properly armed, they sneak through the castle halls, thankfully meeting relatively few guards.

Jaskier stops them when they get to the throne room. Geralt tugs at his arm, but Jaskier plants his feet. “Geralt, wait,” he whispers.

“Jaskier, we have to _go,”_ Geralt insists.

“And then what? Spend the rest of my life hiding? Leave Stregobor in charge? Something needs to be done.”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “He almost killed all of us before. What makes you think that we’ll be able to do anything now?”

“He won’t see us coming this time. And, if my theory is correct, he’s been expending massive amounts of power to keep me and the rest of the country compliant. We’ll have the upper hand.”

Geralt gazes at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Jaskier remains firm. He needs to see this ended, once and for all. Geralt sighs. “Where is he?”

“His quarters are this way.” Jaskier leads him along, their soulbond singing with apprehension the entire way. They reach the doors to his rooms, where Geralt’s medallion begins to vibrate with the magic saturating the air. “He should be asleep. I’ll sneak up, and—”

“No. Too dangerous.”

“Geralt, he won’t kill me. I’m too valuable to him,” Jaskier argues.

Geralt frowns. “What if he controls you again?”

“Then we break it. We’ve done it before.”

“I still don’t like this.”

“I don’t either, love, but it has to be done.” And with that, Jaskier eases the door open silently, creeping towards where Stregobor slumbers on, unaware.

He looks so deceptively harmless like this, a feeble, unconscious old man, no sign of the evil and greed that lurks beneath. Jaskier hesitates a fraction of a second too long, and Stregobor wakes, instantly throwing Geralt and Jaskier back with a wave of magic. They struggle, pinned to the wall like beetles on their backs.

“I see it was a mistake to let you live,” he spits, glaring at Jaskier, and for a moment, his heart skips a beat. But then he feels the hold on him slacken, just a little, but it’s enough to give him hope.

“It’ll be the end of you,” Jaskier taunts. If he can just distract him enough, get him to use up enough power… “You greedy bastard. You’re nothing more than a parasite, leeching off other people so that you can pretend to be someone important.”

“Poor little Julian, resorting to pathetic insults. Is this what you’ve come to? You used to be something, boy. You were the best assassin the Continent had ever seen. Now look at you. A disobedient, mewling witcher’s whore.”

Jaskier feels Stregobor’s mind worming along his own defenses, a familiar, sickening sensation by now. But it’s exactly what he wants—it’s perhaps the only way to defeat him. To use his own arrogance against him.

Jaskier puts up the barest fraction of a fight, reaching out through their soulbond as he pretends. _As soon as I let him in, we can reverse it, turn it around on him._

_Are you sure about this? I won’t lose you again. I can’t bear it._

_I’m sure._

With a sickening snap, Jaskier allows his mental defenses to crack under the pressure, feeling Stregobor ooze into his mind. “You should have run while you could, Julian. I’m going to make you watch yourself kill every last one of your little friends, starting with your precious soulmate.”

The hold on Jaskier’s body slips, and out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Geralt pulling off the wall too. _Now!_

He pulls on Stregobor’s tendrils inside his mind as hard as he can, instead of trying to push his influence out. Geralt’s connection with him is a bolstering shield, propping him up and lending him strength as he fights with everything he has.

It takes Stregobor by surprise, and, already weakened and overexerted as he is, it’s almost easy to flip it around, and Jaskier suddenly has the unique sensation of being in control of another’s mind. Stregobor is wailing inside of his mind, battering against his shields, but with his and Geralt’s combined power, Stregobor is no stronger than a fly bumping against a window.

_On the ground and stay there,_ Jaskier orders, and Stregobor goes peacefully, compliantly, a blank expression on his face the entire time. “Geralt, would you—?”

Geralt nods and rips a length of fabric off the sheets, tying Stregobor’s wrists behind his back, while Jaskier goes to call for the guards. Upon seeing the scene before them, they do a doubletake, but after Jaskier explains the situation—he _is_ still the rightful king, after all, and they’re loyal to the throne—they’re quick to rustle up a pair of dimeritium cuffs, which Jaskier takes great pleasure in locking around Stregobor’s wrists.

What follows afterwards is a very exhausting flurry of activity that leaves Jaskier frantic yet quickly tiring. The news spreads—Stregobor has been detained for treason, the witchers are no longer considered threats, and Jaskier intends to do a full inquiry of all the council members to ensure that there are no more of Stregobor’s loyalists.

Geralt is a solid and steady presence beside him, and whenever Jaskier starts to falter under the strain, Geralt is there to support him, giving him the strength to do what’s needed as he gets his court back in order.

Mathilde proves to be indispensable—she has a good head for organization, and sends the guards out on various tasks as Jaskier needs. She also has a good sense for the smaller details, which Jaskier overlooks or forgets, scattered as he is, and he regularly thanks her profusely.

When the most important things have been handled, Jaskier sits down for the first time in hours, and looks up to realize that it’s well past noon. His stomach is grumbling, very displeased at only being fed once in the past twenty-four hours, and Geralt steers him towards the kitchens. Jaskier doesn’t even remember what he eats before he nearly falls asleep in his plate, and Geralt winds up having to carry him to bed.

Jaskier sleeps for a solid twelve hours, and wakes to Geralt kneeling in meditation at his bedside. “You could have slept, too,” Jaskier says, turning to face Geralt, and Geralt rouses.

“Didn’t want to presume,” he murmurs.

“You’re literally my soulmate, the most important person in my life. There’s hardly anything you couldn’t presume to do.”

“Next time,” Geralt promises, and Jaskier smiles. “How are you feeling?”

“Hmm. Tired, like I slept too long,” Jaskier answers, stretching. “Not looking forward to getting up.”

“There’s still hours yet until sunrise.”

“Mm, and what are you suggesting?” Jaskier asks, licking his lips.

“Not that,” Geralt says sternly. “Not until I know for good that you’re safe.”

“Ugh, alright,” Jaskier groans, turning to lie on his back. “But you’d better make good on your promise.”

“Trust me, I’ve been waiting long enough,” Geralt assures him. “Now, if you’re not going to go back to sleep, how do you feel about a bath?”

“You could just tell me that I smell, you know,” Jaskier teases, but heaves himself up out of bed, beginning to undress while Geralt prepares the bath for him. It’s much easier with a liberal application of Igni.

Jaskier groans as he sinks below the hot surface, his muscles relaxing for the first time in what feels like years. “Are you going to join me?” he asks Geralt, reaching out to prod him with one wet toe.

Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier tries not to pout, but his disappointment is allayed somewhat when Geralt offers to wash his hair for him. It’s a heavenly experience that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Jaskier lazes for a little while, before the water cools enough that he’s forced to get out.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Geralt asks as he helps Jaskier dress. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, of course, but he like having Geralt so close. Plus all of his royal garments have approximately one million tiny buttons that witcher dexterity is perfect for.

“Well, the hardest work is done, since I can trust the council to take over some of the decisions now that all the rotten ones are gone. I suppose I’ll need to go through the rest of the guards with Mathilde, and then sort through some of the relations with our neighboring countries, since I can’t imagine they’re too happy.”

“Hmm.”

“What, did you have something in mind?” Jaskier asks lightly.

Geralt hesitates.

“What is it?” Jaskier studies Geralt’s face closely, but it reveals nothing.

“Stregobor,” Geralt finally sighs. “We need to decide what to do with him.”

“Ah.” Jaskier’s stomach roils at the thought, but he knows Geralt is right. “What do you suggest?”

“He hurt you the worst. His fate should be up to you,” Geralt says neutrally.

Jaskier lets out a deep breath. “I know what I want, and that’s his head on a pike,” he half-laughs. “But… I’ve spent so long hurting and killing people. It’s been my entire life for _fifteen years._ I just—I can’t stand the thought of more blood being spilled by my hands.”

“If that’s what you’re worried about, I’d gladly do it for you,” Geralt mutters, pulling Jaskier into a loose hug. Jaskier sighs and rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I appreciate it,” Jaskier replies dryly. “But I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m offering.”

Jaskier falls silent for a moment, weighing his options, before sighing once more. “I have to do what’s best for my country. And I can’t risk Stregobor doing any more harm than he already has.”

Geralt nods. “It’s the right decision, you know. Not just motivated by revenge.”

“I hope so.”

First thing in the morning, Jaskier will arrange for Stregobor’s execution. For now, he stands in Geralt’s embrace, taking comfort in his soulmate’s presence and support.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment if you liked it! I'm also on [tumblr](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com/)!


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